


(my heart) never could lie to you

by pepperfield



Series: cor cordi loquitur [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Cohabitation, Cooking, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Laundry, Light Pining, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Requited Love, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Snow, Truth or Dare, Vastly Unsuccessful Seduction Techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperfield/pseuds/pepperfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy wishes he had something more interesting to talk about than cyclists and sharks and dessert samplers, but Matt doesn't really seem to mind.</p><p>Featuring too many feelings, highly inept seduction attempts, domestic bliss, and Karen's uphill struggle in the name of true love.</p><p>[Five times Foggy narrates something unnecessary for Matt, and one time Matt does it for him.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】(My Heart) Never Could Lie to You 明明白白我的心（原作：pepperfield）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757743) by [echogyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/echogyd/pseuds/echogyd)



> 'I'm not even in this fandom!' I screech as I chuck myself out the window to escape my feelings.
> 
> In all seriousness though, I have -5 knowledge of the comics, a tenuous at best memory of the show, and no self-control, so if there's any glaring issues, please let me know!

1.

  
  
The matter first comes up when they reach a crosswalk on the way back to the office one afternoon. Foggy, in the middle of retelling a story about Karen's hilarious sandwich mishap from yesterday, instinctively stops to take Matt's arm, explaining, "We're crossing now." Matt makes a small noise of bemusement, but he complies, prodding Foggy to continue the tale of Cole Slaw Hell.  
  
They make it seven steps across before Foggy freezes. His line of sight drops to their linked arms and the awkwardness between them that had started to finally fade comes back in full force. He'd gotten used to re-adjusting his life around the fact that Matt did not, in fact, need his help, because of magic superhero fiery sonar reasons. But it's hard to break years of training, and perhaps just as saliently, he had  _liked_ helping. He doesn't want to make Matt feel weird though, so he chooses the obviously correct action of wrenching his arm away like he's been scalded.  
  
Matt, appropriately for a blind guy who's suddenly been thrown off balance by his best friend in the middle of traffic, stumbles a step before self-correcting and continuing on, but his face has fallen into that dejected puppy look he gets. People around them shoot Foggy dirty glances, and he can't blame them, because that really had been a dick move, even if Matt can cross the street and parkour upside-down and jump across rooftops perfectly well on his own. So he hurries to re-anchor their arms, muttering, "Dude, sorry for kinda flipping out on you back there."  
  
"It's okay," Matt says generously, patting his hand. "You know, I don't actually-" he starts, before breaking off mid-sentence, looking guilty and conflicted as per usual.  
  
"You don't what?" Foggy asks, directing them onto the sidewalk. "We're turning now, watch out for the trashcan on your-goddammit, sorry, forgot again. And pardon my French. Next time you go to church, ask Jesus to forgive me."  
  
"I'm always impressed by how bad you are at Catholicism," Matt responds, pretending he's not amused.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, tell it to the Pope. What were you saying before?"  
  
"Nothing," comes the too-fast reply.  
  
"Lies! Reveal your secrets, or I'll never tell you what Karen found under the lettuce. And that's the best part." He tightens his hold, trying to impart some supportive energy through his grip, but he thinks he might just be cutting off Matt's circulation.  
  
Matt stays silent for a minute more, as they walk another block. Finally, he manages to grit out, "I don't actually mind this. Your help, I mean."  
  
Foggy blinks at him. "I'm staring at you in confusion right now, even though you probably already knew that. In fact,  _because_ you probably already knew that. Why?"  
  
"It's...nice."  
  
"Wow, that sure is a ringing endorsement, buddy. The only way you could've made that more extravagant would be to hire a skywriter to plaster it where everyone can see."  
  
Matt shakes his head, laughing. "No, it's just...familiar, you know? I've gotten used to it. I like having you by my side. And I like hearing your voice."  
  
He sounds terribly earnest, and Foggy flushes, because sure, he knows objectively that he's not half bad, and that Matt thinks he's fantastic for some reason, but compliments still make his heart flutter.   
  
"You're saying that you like hearing me tell you about revolving doors and wet paint and construction zones."  
  
"Yes. It's scintillating," Matt says firmly.  
  
"I 100% don't believe you, but whatever floats your boat, I guess," Foggy says. They reach another crosswalk and stop there, waiting for the cars to pass.  
  
"No, I'm serious. It's like color commentary. I know you think I'm some sort of ninja wizard, but I still cannot actually  _see_ things. Listening to you talk fills in some of those gaps."  
  
Oh. Well. Maybe Matt needs him a tiny bit.  _Settle down before you embarrass both of us_ , Foggy demands of his heart, but that train's long left the station. "Okay, well, if you put it that way, I oughta step it up. I've been slacking recently, but don't you worry, Matthew, 'cause starting now, you've been upgraded to the Triple Deluxe Foggy Nelson Vision Simulation Package. On the house."  
  
"Now that's what I call customer service. Remind me to put in a good word with the higher-ups for you."  
  
The traffic light begins chirping and they start to cross. "You better wait until after the trial run. So, uh, we're crossing the street. The crosswalk is white, and there's eleven, no, twelve stripes."  
  
"I hope you're sure about that," Matt says sternly. "The number of stripes really changes the whole picture."  
  
"Twelve, I'm positive. There's a flattened coffee cup in the middle of the street, and the girl in front of us just stepped in a lump of gum. It's blue. I can't tell what flavor it is, but I know you can taste it on the air somehow, so whatever." The grin that Matt gives him is worth the annoyed look that Gum Girl sends his way.  
  
"See? Scintillating."  
  
"You think that's good, wait til you hear this. There's a stampede of bikers headed our way. Or more like a mosquito cloud. It's a neon disaster. The taxi driver to the right looks like he needs some anger management classes. He's really grinding down on his teeth right now. They're totally flat. I bet his dentist hates him. And- oh, we're back." Foggy ends lamely as they stop in front of the office.  
  
Matt beams at him like he's just recited a Homeric hymn from memory, instead of babbling about New York City traffic patterns. "It's like art. About taxis. Just what I wanted."  
  
Foggy shakes his head, and shrugs, clapping Matt on the arm. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you have atrocious taste in art, buddy."

 

  
  
2.

  
  
With as much gravitas as he can muster, Foggy wiggles his fingers around in his best imitation of a game show host doing jazz hands. "And voila! It's Karen!" He's proud to note that his words are only mostly slurred, and not completely indecipherable.   
  
Karen, barely managing to place her bottle back on the bar amidst her giggles, strikes a pose. But she's clearly misjudged how much alcohol she's imbibed, because she almost takes a nose-dive into a bar stool when her motor skills fail to live up to expectations. Foggy struggles bravely to catch her, and they both crumple into a sloshed mess at Matt's feet. "T-tada!" she mumbles out from under Foggy's arm.  
  
Matt claps vigorously. "Encore! Encore! Great job, guys. Really. Spectacular." Despite the cloudy haze of his drunkenness, Foggy can still tell Matt is patronizing them. He sits up in indignation, letting Karen puddle away onto the floor.  
  
" _Excuse you_ , that was just the prelimnara-prelimatory...uh. First stage. Rough draft. We're still ironing out the kinks," he tells Matt crossly. "Karen doesn't even have her costume yet."  
  
"Oh? It seemed pretty polished to me." Stupid Matt and his stupid smirk. Foggy wants to punch it off his face. Using his mouth.  
  
"You couldn't even see it! And you were laughing the whole time, even during the suspenseful bits. You're a bad test audience. You're just...you're not good. Not good at all." Matt just laughs some more. Dick. With a staggering amount of effort, Foggy manages to find his way back onto his stool, only slipping off a little bit. Matt's hand at his shoulder, steadying him, is gentle and warm. He leans helplessly into the touch, which lasts a few more seconds, before Matt draws away to crouch down next to Karen.  
  
"How are you doing?" Matt asks.  
  
" 'm good. This bed is nice," Karen murmurs in his direction, her face hidden under her hair.  
  
"I'm sure it is," he says fondly. "But I think the one in your apartment is probably better. And now I suddenly remember why it was a mistake to go drinking so far from home. Foggy, can you help her up while I call a cab?"  
  
Foggy makes his sharpest, crispest salute, but still somehow chops himself in the eye. "Yessir. Mission accepted." Matt flashes a smile at him, before stepping away to call.  
  
Carefully, Foggy untangles Karen's fingers from around the gross fallen bar dish she's gotten her hands on, and pulls her up. They sway back and forth shakily for a second, until he arranges their arms in a middle school slow dance formation, shimmying them closer to the door. Karen starts giggling again, little hiccups popping up in every other word.  
  
"Don't let Matt see, or he'll get jealous," she warns him.  
  
Foggy crinkles his eyebrows, trying to process the words. "Matt can't see anything, Karen," he reminds her patiently. " 'Cause like. He's blind."  
  
She shakes her head vehemently, hair flying every which way. "No, no, don't let Matt hear, then. You're not supposed to give it away to just anybody, Foggy."  
  
He steers them slowly toward the doorway, careful not to tip over any furniture on their way out. "Give what away? The secret? I wouldn't do that. I'm very trustworthy," he whispers to her, sotto voce. Which, at this level of inebriation, is not very quietly at all.  
  
Karen frowns at him disapprovingly. "Not the secret. What secret? No, forget that. Your last dance, silly. You can't just pick any old jerk. You save it for, you know, ' _the one_ '."  
  
Foggy stops to mull this over. He doesn't know much about dance etiquette, but if Karen says so, it must be true. "Okay. I promise to save it for 'the one,' " he says solemnly. She nods, satisfied.  
  
"What are you saving?" Matt asks, suddenly at their side. He hooks his arm in with theirs, tugging them out the rest of the way, before Foggy remembers he's supposed to pretend to be leading.  
  
"It's a secret," Foggy says primly, even though Matt probably heard the whole conversation. He herds the other two into the cab before squishing in last.  
  
"A secret!" Karen agrees, leaning her head against Matt's shoulder. He responds by brushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. There's a tenderness to the gesture that makes something in Foggy's heart twinge, and he has to look away, directing his gaze out the window instead.  The city lights blur together in a symphony of color as they drive toward Karen's, and each puff of his breath leaves the glass frosted. With autumn fast departing, the midnight chill seeps in from outside, sending tremors down his side.  
  
Using his pinky finger, Foggy draws a stick figure in the condensation on the glass, adding a smile and two lines to designate his long hair. It wouldn't do to leave his stickself homeless, so he draws himself a little house, with a chimney and a tree in the yard. A squiggle of smoke from the chimney, for extra authenticity. It looks lonely, so he starts drawing Matt next to him. All Foggies need a Matt with them, even if they're stick people.  
  
The weight of Matt's hand on his knee causes him to turn, waves of heat pulsing from the palm through the rough material of his pants to his skin. He shivers again, for an entirely different reason.  
  
"What are you doing?" Matt's voice is canted low, so as not to disturb Karen, now asleep on his arm. Foggy wants to curl up in the sound and stay there forever. Build himself a hollow in the forgotten corners of Matt's existence and thread himself into the cobwebs and the foundations. Gradually insinuate himself into all those shrouded places in Matt's life that were never meant to be his, until he can prove to Matt that he can be trusted. That he can be reliable. If five, ten years were not enough, then he will wait twenty. Thirty. He will tend the garden that Matt lets run wild; he will sweep the floors and light the hearth.  
  
_I'm making you a home. Every day, for the rest of my days. Whatever it takes for you to come back to me safely._  
  
But those are secret words. Things filed away and labelled 'stuff we don't reveal to our best friends'. Karen, she's good. She'll never tell on him. But the whiskey still runs hot through Foggy's bloodstream, so he concentrates and punts those thoughts back down where they belong.  
  
"Sketching my masterpiece," he says instead, summoning up as much faux haughtiness as he can while sleepy and morose. If Matt can hear it in his voice, he kindly doesn't comment.  
  
"Yeah? What's the subject matter? Beautiful women? Allegories for justice?"   
  
"Matt, you fool, every artiste must have a self-portrait. Here," he takes Matt's hand in his and uses it to trace over his drawing. "That right there is yours truly, dashing as ever, of course. There's my eyes, and- hey stop it, you're screwing up my hair!"  
  
Foggy doesn't hear Matt's laugh so much as feel it, resounding through his arm where they're pressed together. "How about a collaboration?"  
  
"Alright, but only if you let me help. I drew my house over there; it's got a roof and a window. You can add another one, so there's two." Matt, with his guidance, adds a second window, just a tad lopsided. Foggy has to exhale on the window again to increase their drawing surface; his breath leaves a touch of warmth against their fingertips.  
  
"Can I draw myself? I mean, it's a picture of you, so you can say no, but-" Strangely enough, Matt sounds kind of nervous. Foggy wants to kick whoever first caused Matt to go brittle at the edges like this.   
  
"You're already there, you goof," Foggy reassures him. "Well, your head is. Right now you're just a floating torso holding a walking cane."  
  
"You drew my cane, but not my legs?" Luckily, the fragile note in his voice is gone, replaced with that soft amusement that never fails to make Foggy smile.  
  
"I was getting there! You're lucky you made the cut at all, you know. I was seriously debating just surrounding myself with all my childhood pets. Marshmallow down there next to my picket fence, and Chirps on the roof maybe, and George Flopsington with her own hutch up here, in the sky. Carrot shaped clouds. Catnip up the wazoo. Be glad you even got arms, pal."  
  
"Sorry, sorry. I'm very thankful that you chose me over, what was it? Mallard Billmore?"  
  
"Ha. What I wouldn't have given for a pet duck," Foggy says, lazily adding in Matt's legs. He deserves them. "But no, I'll always pick you," he confesses, slumping down against Matt. Exhaustion has finally caught up to him.  
  
In the quiet of the cab, Foggy thinks he hears Matt say, "Me too," but with the sweet call of sleep pulling at his consciousness, he can't be sure.


	2. Chapter 2

3.

 

For once, Matt, Hell's Kitchen, and life itself have all concurrently decided to cut Foggy some slack, and he coasts by for a solid week free of undue stress. He even finds a five dollar bill on the street on his way to work Thursday morning. He tucks it into his suit pocket as a reminder to start a workplace upgrade fund. He loves their office, simply because it's  _theirs_ , but it could use some sprucing up.  
  
That evening, walking home with his takeout curry in hand, Foggy whistles his way down the street. It makes him feel a little like a cartoon character, but he doesn't care. It's been a good couple of days. He hasn't spotted a single bruise or scratch on Matt for two weeks, he made Karen laugh so hard she almost spilled her coffee, and he's stuffed full of tea cakes from an afternoon spent at their latest client's apartment scouring through her mail for evidence. Things are looking up for ol' Foggy Nelson.  
  
But the cosmic checks and balances must be on to him, because it's then, as he's turning the corner, that an SUV backs up through the plate glass window of the shop across the street, scattering shrapnel everywhere. Reflexively, he ducks, trying to make himself smaller, but none of the debris comes close enough to cause him any harm. His next instinct is to run toward the accident, even as Matt's voice in his head scolds him for not dialing 911 instead. Imaginary Matt can go shove it, because Foggy's not going to take safety tips from the hallucination of a guy who falls into dumpsters. The place is totally deserted; if anyone needs emergency treatment, Foggy's their best hope right now, even if the last first aid class he took was Claire's crash course for friends of dumbass vigilantes.  
  
As he approaches the car, someone stumbles out of the driver's seat. He doesn't look too bad off, but it doesn't hurt to check, so Foggy hurries over, calling, "Hey, man, you okay? Was anyone in the backseat?"  
  
The guy, barely even an adult, goggles at him for a second, before raising his hand, and oh- he's holding a knife. Huh. Foggy finally thinks to look at the name of the shop: Diamond Dust Jewelers. His first thought is  _damn, that's a dumb name_ ; his second thought is  _ohhhh, this is a robbery, duh_.  
  
He makes the mistake of saying that one out loud, causing the kid to advance on him, knife trembling in his hands. Apparently it does hurt to check. Foggy lifts his hands, palms up, backing away. "You know what, you look okay! So, uh, I'm just gonna go, and we'll just pretend we never saw each other. How's that sound?" The kid looks like he wants to agree, but they both startle at the sound of shattering glass followed by a blaring alarm. Inside the store, three guys start loading up their bags, but one stops when he notices Foggy awkwardly retreating.  
  
"Who the fuck is that douchebag?" he yells at the driver, who's still frozen in place.  
  
Foggy takes that as his cue to run the hell away, hoping they'll pick looting diamonds over gutting him. Unfortunately for him, his good week is officially over, because he hears footsteps following close behind. He picks up the pace, sprinting desperately down an alleyway to escape, his stupid curry thumping against his leg as he runs. But those tea cakes from earlier are not doing him any favors, and he finds himself quickly losing steam. The driver finally corners him against the alley wall; his shouty accomplice catching up several seconds later.   
  
"Y-you didn't have to follow me. I can take care of this," the kid says, but he looks queasy, and his hands are still shaking.   
  
Shouty says what he and Foggy are both thinking. "No, you fucking can't. Look at you. You'd fold the second this prick begs for his life," he says, derision heavy in his tone.  
  
"Would that work? I'm not above it," Foggy admits. "I'm pretty invested in not dying, so if turning on the waterworks is what it takes-"  
  
"No!" Kid snaps. "I can do it," he tells his cohort, steadying his grip.  
  
"Then get it over with already!" Shouty yells back, shoving the kid at Foggy, who shakes his head. Nope. No stabbings today, not if he can help it.  
  
"No, wait a sec, think this over. Do you really want to add murder to your rap sheet?" Kid's face gets a little green around the gills under his ski mask and he stops an arm's length away, but Shouty growls and pulls out his gun, causing Foggy to babble faster. "I'm a lawyer. A really good one. And right now, the only things you'd be convicted of are grand larceny and burglary, which, okay, not great, but it's not  _murder_. That's a big one, guys. Hard to bounce back from."  
  
Kid looks at Shouty for guidance; Foggy can tell his resolve is weakening. "Maybe we could just knock him out?" he asks hesitantly.  
  
Being knocked out isn't exactly ideal, but it sure beats getting shot in the face. Shouty deliberates on it for a second, then nods, but he clearly doesn't trust the kid to get the deed done. Foggy tries not to shrink against the wall, but he really isn't looking forward to potential brain damage. There's no time to squirm away though, as Shouty steps up and brings the barrel of his gun down across  Foggy's head.   
  
Getting pistol-whipped really,  _really_ sucks. Foggy falls back, wincing, spouting every curse that comes to mind. He barely registers the sound of the kid yelling, "Shit, he's still standing," because his forehead is bleeding, what the actual fuck. He's about to give Shouty a piece of his mind, because what self-respecting criminal can't even knock someone unconscious, but something heavy lands behind them with a hard thud.  
  
Foggy looks up in time to see Daredevil breaking Shouty's arm with a violent snap, before throwing him at the wall. The guy tries to make an attempt to fight, but Daredevil lays him flat with a hit to the stomach. He crumples, but it's not enough for the Devil, who keeps whaling on him, even as the cries of surrender die down into silence.  
  
The only thing that stops his rampage is the clank of a knife hitting asphalt. Daredevil whips around, and in one fluid movement, grabs the kid, and punches him in the jaw, taking him down with one hit. He's about to go to town on him too, but Foggy protests.  
  
"Wait, he didn't do anything," Foggy says, swiping away the blood that's trickling down to his eyes. "They're down. You did enough." He keeps his tone steady and calm, trying to slow his breathing. Control his pulse.   
  
"They  _hurt_ you. They have to pay," Daredevil snarls, and in the dark of the alleyway, hearing those words in that growl, Foggy  remembers why the underworld fears the man in the mask. But underneath it all, that current of worry that manifests in his voice, in the tenseness of his shoulders and set of his jaw - that's all Matt. And it's Foggy's self-appointed responsibility to make sure Matt never looks like that, agitated and fractured. So he steps away from the wall on wobbly legs toward Matt, and slowly, gently pries him off the unconscious kid.  
  
"I think they've paid enough. I mean, I only took one hit," he says, touching his bruise carefully. Matt scrambles to examine it for himself, making soft, apologetic pats against Foggy's hair when Foggy winces at the touch.  
  
"You're bleeding. You should go to the hospital," Matt says, fingers shaky as he cards through hair, and Foggy can't help but to roll his eyes, because wow, hypocritical much? Matt's tried before to sneak past much worse hidden behind some patchy concealer.  
  
He plasters on a grin, hoping the old 'fake it 'til you make it' will put him in the right mindset. If he can convince himself it's the truth, then Matt won't have a lie to call him out on. "I'm fine. Tis but a flesh wound. These guys have some friends you should probably go take care of instead of hanging out with me."  
  
Matt looks down at the robbers, frowning. He tilts his head slightly toward the way Foggy came, probably listening to the sound of people shoveling gold rings into a sack or something. But he returns his attention to Foggy, still frowning. "Let me walk you home."  
  
"Uh, no thanks,  _Daredevil_. I'm grateful for you saving my life and all, but a simple law-abiding citizen like me doesn't need a personal bodyguard. Especially one with horns," he teases, trying to keep the tiredness out of his demeanor.  
  
Matt nods slowly, but Foggy can tell he's unhappy. About leaving Foggy to walk home alone, about the thugs on the ground and the drops of Foggy's blood on his gloves. But these are the rules Matt lives by, and Foggy's going to hold him to them. Matt will never give up the mantle, and Foggy will never give up on Matt, so he'll swallow down his anxieties and nightmares and do what he has to do. He'll be strong. He'll bring Matt lunch on the good days and he'll patch him up on the bad days, and he'll deal with the occasional head wound and let Matt run off into the night to finish what he started.  
  
Matt's taken it upon himself to protect Hell's Kitchen. The least Foggy can do is give him one less person to worry about.  
  
"You leave first; I have to watch these two. Stay safe," Matt says, subdued. His hand lingers at Foggy's temple until Foggy nods. He starts to walk away, then remembers he shouldn't leave his curry around to rot in an alley, so he snaps it up and tries to leave with as much dignity as he can muster, ignoring Matt's small huff of laughter.  
  
  
Foggy power walks the rest of the way home without incident, stopping only to toss his much abused curry in a public garbage can. After locking his door, the first thing he does is collapse on his couch and lie there in the dark. He's tempted to just shut his eyes and go to sleep like that, in his suit with dried blood on his face. However, he knows if Matt busts into his place through the window and finds him like that he'll flip the fuck out, so he drags himself into his bedroom to change.  
  
Once he's out of his suit he parks in front of the mirror with a wet paper towel and dabs away at the dirt and blood gingerly. The gun left two small cuts that he bandages up with gauze he bought a few months back for Matt. For the swelling he slaps a bag of frozen dumplings on his head, and for the pain he downs two tylenol, then props himself up against his headboard to debate texting Claire.  
  
Even though it's a head injury, Foggy doesn't feel particularly worse off than he expected so he opts instead to browse through Ikea's online catalog for new furniture. He's in the middle of writing himself a reminder to find a jar for the office fund when Matt calls.  
  
"Nelson's Fine Meats and Assorted Sundries. Regular operating hours are from dusk to dawn; yes, that's right, we cater exclusively to vampire clientele. What can I do you for?"  
  
"Still on the butcher thing, huh?" Matt's response lacks energy, but at least he sounds like himself.  
  
"Always, Matty. What's up? You done with your side job so soon?" Foggy glances at his watch; it's not even midnight.  
  
"I decided to wrap things up early. How's your injury?"  
  
The dumplings keep slipping off his head, and he has the uncontrollable urge to scratch at an itch under the gauze, but there's not much else to say. "It's good. I mean, as good as any injury is."  
  
Matt makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. "No, I'm serious, Foggy, are you okay? Did you put on a bandage? Maybe I should call Claire," and he sounds distracted, like he's really about to hang up his phone and bother poor Claire over one measly wound.  
  
"Matt, I'm telling you, I've got it under control," Foggy says, exasperated. "I'm treating it. I asked the almighty internet what to do; I can read the instructions to you if you care so much. Step 1: Clean the incision with a napkin and your cheapest wine. Already did it. Step 2: Cut away extraneous microbes. Also done. Step 3: Tie up any loose arteries. Which I'm doing right now."  
  
"You're lying," Matt accuses.  
  
Foggy pshaws loudly. "No way you can hear my heartbeat over the phone, you faker."  
  
"Hmmm," Matt hums noncommittally. "I can neither confirm not deny that. But it doesn't matter, because I  _can_ hear your heartbeat through your front door. Open up." And then he hangs up.  
  
With a groan, Foggy puts his makeshift ice pack down and shuffles out of bed to unlock the door. Matt is hovering in the doorway holding a plastic bag of groceries; Foggy rifles through it while Matt takes his shoes off. There's a carton of orange juice, a box of rigatoni, a bag of fresh string beans, three pears, and metric ton of assorted bandaids.   
  
"In case you needed a quick dinner," Matt explains, taking the bag and putting things away in Foggy's fridge.  
  
"And here I thought you'd have gotten better at shopping since we graduated," Foggy sighs, following him into the kitchen. With all of Matt's enhanced senses, you'd think he would be better at cooking by now, so as not to offend his own delicate palate, but apparently not. "That's the fifth box of pasta you've bought me this month, Murdock. I really don't know as many Italian dishes as you seem to think I do."  
  
Matt pauses in the middle of cramming the rigatoni into the already cramped cupboard. "Oh. Well, maybe we could look up a new recipe to try," he suggests, sounding kind of hopeful. Foggy laughs.  
  
"Okay, but you're only allowed to wash and chop the vegetables. I'm never letting you near a pan again, not after the last incident."  
  
"You'll trust me with a knife, but not a pan? That seems logical," Matt says drily, pulling up a stool at the kitchen island. With a scoff, Foggy bats at him using the plastic bag full of bandaids.  
  
"Last time you literally threw stir-fry at your own face! I don't know why you're trying to show off your non-existent wok tossing skills; you can't even make pancakes right."  
  
"They were cooked perfectly! I didn't let a single one burn," Matt protests feebly. "And I know I put in all the right ingredients."  
  
"Well they still tasted like potatoes, so I dunno what to say to you, buddy. Just 'cause you have special powers and know like twelve different martial arts doesn't mean you can fry an egg worth a damn, so just simmer down and accept your position as veggie chopper."  
  
Matt lets out a long sigh, but he's wearing a smile. That is, until he catches the bag Foggy keeps hitting him with and remembers all the bandaids inside, and his face falls again.  
  
"Your head - how's it feeling? Are you sure you put the gauze on right?" He reaches up to touch it carefully, and Foggy rolls his eyes, but lets him check for himself.  
  
"The gauze is good where it is, Matt. After a recent string of events, I have become very good at emergency first aid," Foggy replies pointedly. "In fact, I'm probably gonna end up using most of those bandages on you at some point."  
  
At Foggy's words, Matt stops with his hands still fiddling with the gauze, a guilty air about him. He takes a deep breath like he's bracing for rejection, and says, "I'm sorry you have to see me like that. I don't- you shouldn't have to deal with all this. It's my life, my responsibility, and I'm not going to drag you down into it. I know it upsets you when I get hurt, and it's...that's not something I can change. So, I understand if you don't want me to come to you for help anymore. I can do it on my own."  
  
Foggy stamps down on his urges to simultaneously headbutt Matt for being an idiot and hug him for being the saddest orphan in existence. He settles for flicking Matt on the forehead and dragging him over to the couch to sit him down. "Look, we already had this fight, so I'm not going to get into the whole problem of you and your lack of faith in me, but I'm going to throw you out of my apartment if you keep insulting me like this." Matt looks like he's about to protest, but Foggy plows on.  
  
"I know you. And I know you don't think of being Daredevil as a choice. It's who you are, and maybe neither of us knew that when I signed up for a lifetime subscription to the Matt Murdock Best Friend Experience, but we're here now, and I'm not quitting just because cleaning up after you is going to cost me tens of dollars in paper towels.  
  
"You're my  _partner_ , Matt. My best friend. You've gotta know by now that I've always got your back. I count on you to save me from muggers; you can count on me to sew up your cuts. That's why we're Nelson and Murdock. For better or for worse, remember? In sickness and in health, etc, the whole kit and caboodle."  
  
The laugh that bubbles up unexpectedly from Matt is the best sound Foggy's heard all day. "This time you really  _actually_ lifted lines straight out of a wedding vow. I guess we  _are_ a little bit married."  
  
If only, Foggy doesn't say. "Yeah, well, if the glove fits. You're never getting rid of me. 'Til death do us part, sucker."  
  
"I'm not going to let you die," Matt says quickly, a scowl overtaking his face.   
  
"Okay, I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm going to die  _someday_ , dude. Not even the devil can fight off death."  
  
"We'll see about that," Matt mutters. He sounds completely serious and Foggy doesn't regret for a moment the surge of fondness that washes over him as he watches Matt frown at a cushion.   
  
"If such a day arises that you can see  _anything_ , Matty, you let me know. But right now,  _I_  am going to watch a really stupid shark movie, and  _you_ are going to stop brooding and listen along with me," Foggy commands imperiously, flipping the tv on and dropping his feet down into Matt's lap. He should probably put his dumplings back in the freezer and go to sleep, but right now, Matt needs for things to be normal and for Foggy to be safe. Matt needs a reason to stay; Foggy can give him that. He can give a million and eight reasons why Matt can stay, why Matt  _should_ stay, but lucky for him, he only ever seems to need one.  
  
"I don't know why you torture yourself with garbage when we could just watch something good," Matt says with a grin, but he sits back and rests his hands on Foggy's ankles as the movie begins.  
  
"Because a little suffering is good for the soul. Now hush so I can tell you what's going on. Alright, we open on these scuba divers in the ocean doing God knows what. Cut to the U.S. Bountress floating around the Challenger Deep Trench. The dude talking just now is like diver tech support I guess, and now they're circling a cable. Welding it."  
  
"Sounds like a shark's on its way," Matt says through the shouts coming from the film.  
  
"You weren't top of our class for nothing, pal. I think you might just be right. Shit, here it comes, oh wow, the CG is  _terrible_ ," Foggy tells him gleefully, kicking his feet up and down lightly on Matt's legs. "You could draw a better shark than this."  
  
Matt just smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie they're watching is Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, and it sure is...something.
> 
> I know the 'fluff' tag seems a little like a lie right now, but I swear it'll kick in next chapter! Thanks for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

4.

 

With his most graceful bow, Foggy releases Chloe's hand. She, in turn, does her best to curtsy, only a little shaky in her balance; young Mrs. Miller laughs, and swoops her daughter back up into her arms.  
  
"What do we say, sweetie," she asks, bouncing Chloe on her hip.  
  
Chloe beams at him, both her front teeth missing. "Thank you, Mr. Nelson," she lisps.  
  
Foggy ruffles her hair with aplomb, eliciting a fit of protesting giggles as she tries to bat his hands away. "The honor was mine, milady. But now I must make my escape, before your friend Nathan over there demands another spin. Have a good evening, ladies," he says, taking off before the band of first grade ruffians can catch him again.  
  
He escapes back to their table without much more trouble than a few hearty hugs and cheek pinches from the older folks milling around the dancefloor. Karen's stationed at the edge of her seat at the next table over, engaged in a very vicious game of bridge with their client's friends. There's a swizzle stick clenched between her teeth and she's surveying her opponents like a warlord who's about to go on the offensive. Foggy does the smart thing and purloins her glass for a refill while she readies her attack.  
  
He strolls back at his leisure toward the drink table, admiring the decorations. The community center has been transformed, with pretty star-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling and decorations made by the local teenage art initiative hung up on the walls. With the cream tablecloths and the little vase of fresh flowers at each table, it almost looks like a homespun wedding reception. Foggy pats the wall with a proprietary sort of satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that they won a fight for the greater good.   
  
The familiar tap of Matt's cane approaches from his right, and if that weren't enough to announce him, the hand at Foggy's back certainly is. He could never mistake it for anyone else. "What are you doing all the way over here by yourself? Admiring the fine maple woodwork?"  
  
"Just basking in our victory, my friend. And I don't think it's maple. Cherry, maybe."  
  
"I thought I recognized the sound of you gloating," Matt says, resting against his cane. "And it's not cherry. I would know."  
  
"You  _would not_. I don't believe for a second you're enough of a lumber aficionado to be able to hear the difference between maple and cherry," Foggy responds, steering them over to the refreshments. He hands Karen's cup to Matt, trying to figure out what she was drinking before.  
  
"For all you know, I had a very successful junior career in carpentry before law school." Matt grins, taking a quick sniff of her cup. "Limeade with a splash of cranberry juice."  
  
Foggy scoops in a spoon of ice before hunting down the right bottle of limeade. "I've seen your so-called carpentry skills first hand, buddy. Remember that time you convinced me to let you hang up the sailboat painting in the office? You broke the hammer with your scary death grip somehow. You couldn't nail a billboard to the broad side of a barn." He chuckles a bit at the memory; what should have been a ten minute task had devolved into a 2 hour ordeal followed by a game of 52-bent-nail-pickup. There's still a dozen odd pockmarks in the wall hidden behind the painting.  
  
"I'll nail you," Matt mutters, pouring himself a glass of water and gulping down half of it in one go. "It was the hammer's fault. I know you bought it from a craft store bargain bin." True enough, but Foggy will never admit it.  
  
"Excuses, excuses," Foggy laughs, leading them back to their table.  
  
Karen and Mr. Zhang have clinched victory over Mrs. Davies and her sister by a small margin, leaving the losers to graciously offer to grab dessert for the others. Karen waves off their offers for a rematch, and settles back at her seat with Foggy and Matt, taking back her cup with a smile of appreciation.  
  
"Done dancing so soon, Foggy? I think you've still got some admirers waiting on you," she says, pointing at the kids running in circles on the stage.  
  
Foggy throws himself back on his chair dramatically, hand over his eyes. "Don't remind me. I told them I needed a break to recharge my energy through strawberry cheesecake first."  
  
"You'd better get moving," Karen says, peering over at the dessert table. "I think there's only two slices left."  
  
He sits up at that, grabbing at Matt's arm. "It's more dire than I realized. Matthew, we must away. To the cheesecake!"  
  
"To the cheesecake!" Matt rallies, slinging his arm over Foggy's shoulder. They march forward together, valiantly ignoring Karen's jibes about how out of step they are.  
  
The dessert table isn't as ravaged as Karen made it out to be, but Foggy can't justify taking a piece of everything for himself. "Let's share," he says to Matt, who nods and continues admiring the centerpiece of paper lilies with his hands. He arranges a plate with a little slice of each dish for them, while Matt folds an origami flower out of a napkin, leaving it with the lilies. They take a few seconds to coordinate their footwork so that they can return to Karen in triumph.  
  
"Bravo," she exclaims when they halt neatly in front of her, holding her hand up in front of her mouth to hide her brownie filled laugh. "I'm sorry I underestimated you," she says after she washes down her brownie with limeade.  
  
"I can't say I blame you," Matt responds as Foggy divvies up their sampler onto a second plate. "Foggy doesn't have a great track record with synchronized rhythmic activities."  
  
"Demonstrably false, sir." Foggy denies vehemently, sticking a fork in Matt's carrot cake and handing him a plate. "I have a full dance card that would testify to the contrary."  
  
Matt smiles at him slyly, which means nothing good. "Dancing, sure. But I think Karen should hear the tale of your undergrad homecoming game. So, Foggy's sweet-talked his way into the marching band," he begins telling Karen, but that is  _so_  not a story Karen needs to hear right now. Foggy's still got her thinking he has some level of dignity yet, so he lifts up the fork and crams it into Matt's mouth before he can get to the part with the sousaphone and the school mascot.  
  
"Time for some delicious cake, friend! Mmmm, carrot, so healthy and nutritious. Yes, you just chew on that instead of exposing dark secrets to our secretary," Foggy hisses at Matt, who smirks but caters to his demand. The cake really does look good, though, so Foggy takes a bite for himself and sighs happily. "You can taste it, right? That smidge of nutmeg; the hint of ginger? It was such a pretty cupcake, too. Mrs. Johnson did it up all nice, with a perfect swirl of cream cheese frosting on top and a little icing carrot on each one. You got the half with the stem," he informs Matt.  
  
Matt nods, raking at the frosting with the tines of his fork. "It was really moist. She used some high-quality yogurt. And just the right amount of sugar in the frosting," he notes.  
  
Karen watches them fondly, shaking her head. "You guys should consider a side gig working for the Food Network. 'Delightful Bites with You-Know-Who'. 'What's Cooking in Hell's Kitchen?' 'Nine-Minute Meals with Nelson and Murdock.' "  
  
"It could work. America loves handsome guys who know how to cook, and uh, handsome guys who can peel potatoes and look pretty while eating food. Excellent idea, Karen! Mr. Murdock, give the lady a raise. We'll be able to afford it with all that extra cash we'll be raking in," Foggy says, slapping his hands down on the table, almost overturning it if not for Matt's iron grip on the other side.  
  
"Mr. Nelson, please refrain from destroying everything," Matt scolds with zero intent, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.  
  
Foggy's about to suggest they try the lemon poppy-seed pound cake next, when a small hand starts tugging at his sleeve. Looking down, he sees Nathan frowning at him severely. Over across the room, the kids have flowed off the stage back down into the dancefloor.  
  
"You  _promised_ ," Nathan states curtly, making grabby hands at Foggy, who sends one last mournful look at the beautiful half of an eclair on his plate, before standing.  
  
"That I did. Lead on, Nathan." Matt and Karen wave as he's led away to his doom.  
  
Foggy dances through two Disney songs with Nathan before he gets ambushed by twins Jenny and Selena, who teach him some jazzy new moves they've been learning in class. Afterwards, he takes their grandmother around for a spin, and she's twice is spry as he ever hopes to be at her age. He leaves her in the careful arms of her son-in-law as the songs begin slowing down. When the next ballad starts, he excuses himself from the whole clan of Sullivans who've descended upon the spectators' chairs on the sidelines.  
  
He turns around, intending to return to his table, only to bump right into someone. When he sees it's just Matt he bops him on the chest for sneaking around again, but Matt catches his hand and leads him back toward the dancefloor, leaving his cane resting against a table. Foggy follows, albeit in slight confusion, but everything comes together when he sees Karen in his peripheral vision, shooting him two thumbs up and a goofy wink.  
  
If it were any other time, he would take a picture of her and print it out on stickers, to make an official Karen stamp of approval, but the floor full of dancing couples, both young and old, sparks an anxiety through his nerve endings, leaving him feeling strangely frayed. What a picture they must make right now, with Matt holding his hand and Foggy trailing after, like he always seems to do these days. Foggy's sure that anyone who stops to look at them would figure him out in an instant. Even now, he can't help but slip up. Even now, after years of folding down each of his feelings and tucking them away between sheafs of statutes and codes and doctrines, after bleeding out each hidden wish in oceans of ink after every other flashcard and study guide. Even after all the compartmentalizing and prioritizing post-Columbia — contracts and legal methods, keep; hopeless yearning and senseless daydreams, toss — he still can't get this one aspect of his life under control.  
  
There's no one to blame but Foggy and his irresponsible heart. Karen means well, but she hasn't realized yet what Foggy's had years to learn. Matt is sweet and Matt is kind. That kindness is one of the things Foggy loves, but it's also a source of constant grief. Matt is a great friend, and he returns every one of Foggy's affections accordingly, but that's what hurts the most. Because for Matt, a dance doesn't mean anything. A hug, a lingering touch, a smile brighter than the grace of God itself – coming from Matt, none of it ever signifies anything greater.   
  
And Foggy knows this. He  _knows,_  he really does, but oh, how tenacious hope is. Never quite extinguished. So he follows Matt to the ends of the earth and back, or perhaps to just the edge of the dancefloor, where they stop.  
  
Matt's hand hovers awkwardly in the air near Foggy's shoulder like he's waiting for an invitation to a party that doesn't exist. Foggy could be merciful and take charge, but he's going to make Matt work for his unsolicited platonic dance. The guy needs to improve his communication skills anyway. "You know, generally if you want something from someone, you use your words to..." Foggy prompts.  
  
"Foggy, I'd like to dance with you," Matt says sincerely, his expression soft in that way that only seems to happen to beautiful people in the movies, and it  _doesn't mean anything_ , but every atom in Foggy's body wants to react like it does. So he follows procedure. Exhales. Pushes this moment of weakness out with his breath and presses his desires flat like delphinium petals between faded journal pages, and he files it away, with all the other lost trinkets and amber colored memories that compose a one-sided romance, a courtship Matt was never even aware of undertaking. Into the vault, safe from the dust and the rain, never to be tarnished by time.  
  
Then he takes Matt's hand and places it at his waist, and links their free hands together, holding their arms out in an approximation of the correct form. "Then dance we shall, Matty. But you've gotta cooperate with me. Keep your spine strong and no noodly arms, got it?" His voice barely sounds besotted, and he mentally gives himself a pat on the back for another crisis averted.  
  
"Okay, but I can't promise I won't step on your feet," Matt warns, as if he can't sense where Foggy's feet are at all times. Foggy responds by stepping on Matt first, and they fall into battle, trying to stomp on each other completely out of time with the music. This lasts until Mr. Alvarez gives Foggy an admonishing look when he walks by and catches him kicking Matt in the shin. They straighten up like students caught sneaking an animal into the school, Matt hiding his snickers behind a cough and Foggy flushing pink in shame.  
  
Together they shuffle even farther away from the center of the floor, and start to move back and forth vaguely. It feels a little bit absurd, especially when Matt pulls apart and holds his arm up in an arc, demanding that Foggy twirl. Foggy does with the utmost elegance, then follows it up with one of the new tricks Selena showed him, using Matt as a support beam, talking through the process to try and remember.  
  
"So I sweep my leg like this, forward and back, right? Then I kinda swap over like this, whoa, and step..."  
  
"That sounds like a tap move," Matt says, staring down at Foggy's feet in concentration. "Or you're trying to scuff your shoes for fun. I'm not sure which."  
  
"You clearly have no appreciation for fine art. I'd like to see you do better, you caveman."  
  
"I know some capoeira, but I can't imagine that going over too well."  
  
"You'd have a lot of explaining to do," Foggy agrees.  
  
Matt puts his hands back where they were before, stepping slowly and deliberately, so that they turn in a gentle arc. "How about this? Dance with me like you did with Karen," he requests quietly, his hand curling around Foggy's hip.  
  
Foggy blinks at him, somewhat lost. He hasn't danced with Karen at all tonight; she's been monopolized by little old ladies who want a card shark on their side. He was going to ask earlier, but he's seen her trading glances with the cute DJ, and he didn't want to cause any misunderstandings there.  
  
"I think your senses might be out of whack. Karen's been hustling all night; she hasn't had any time to dance," he tells Matt as they sway.  
  
"No, not today. It's-um, when we were at that bar a few months ago. You...you guys looked like you were having fun," Matt says, sounding kind of embarrassed. Foggy runs through his recent memories until he recalls what Matt's talking about, that one time they went somewhere other than Josie's. God, he'd been so drunk that night. He can sort of remember swinging Karen around, whispering about something with her.  
  
"That's because Karen and I lead sparkling lives. We always look like we're having fun when we're not running away from bad guys or drowning in paperwork," Foggy says, squeezing Matt's hand. "Anyway, I'm sure you've had just as much fun yourself, mister man of many mysteries."  
  
"Not like this," Matt admits. They've drifted inward, toward some of the couples on the floor, so he lowers his voice.  
  
Oh, Matt. Foggy sighs, pressing in closer as they turn. "Good thing for you that you're stuck with me, then. I've got a B.A. in fun. At this point, I'm basically an industry expert."  
  
"I didn't know 'fun' counted as a pre-law major anywhere except clown college."  
  
Foggy opens his mouth to retort but from this angle he can see Karen standing by the DJ's table. When she spots him, she waves and mouths something at him. It takes him a few seconds to make out what she's saying.  
  
"Don't forget who's taking you home?" he mumbles.  
  
"Hmm? What was that?" Matt asks, but as the next song begins and he hears the words, Foggy finally gets what Karen's trying to say.  
  
"Save the last dance for me? I can't believe she remembers that conversation," he mutters under his breath, a few specifics of that night resurfacing. Matt might well be 'the one,' but she's mistaken if she thinks this will go anywhere.  
  
"What conversation?" Matt seems to have perked up for some reason, but Foggy just shakes his head.  
  
"Don't worry about it, buddy. Anyway, I think this is a sign from up above. We should probably head home after this; gotta get up bright and early tomorrow."  
  
"Are you sure? There's still a whole cookie arrangement to try," Matt says, his grip tightening. "And your adoring masses would miss you."  
  
Foggy glances around the room, where most of the kids are starting to drift off on their parents' shoulders. "We can wrap it up. Have a midday snack at the office tomorrow. And they look as sapped as I feel. No more tap lessons for tonight. You're my last dance, Matt." He doesn't know why he says it out loud. Maybe just to admit it to himself.  
  
But Matt doesn't seem fazed, because the meaning is lost on him. "Okay. After this song, we'll go home," he says, softly. Pleased, almost. He was probably getting pretty tired too, what with all the hustle and bustle.   
  
They spin again, calmly promenading past another couple. Foggy tries to capture as much of the moment as he can: the glow of the star lights, the chords of the song floating through the room, the constant weight of Matt's hand in his.  
  
Another picture perfect memory for the vault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Laugh and sing_   
>  _But while we're apart_   
>  _Don't give your heart_   
>  _To anyone_
> 
> _But don't forget who's taking you home_   
>  _And in whose arms you're gonna be_   
>  _So darlin'_   
>  _Save the last dance for me_
> 
>  
> 
> They're playing The Drifters' version, because Karen and I are little old-fashioned, I guess.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed from the influx of ridiculous tags, this chapter goes completely off the rails in terms of fluffy, trope-filled nonsense, and I barely managed to sustain the structural premise of this fic. Apologies in advance; please enjoy 10,000 words of this self-indulgence. The next chapter will be the epilogue! Thanks again for reading!!

5.  
  
  
Matt looks terrible.  
  
Okay, not terrible, exactly, but frazzled and worn out. Four times has Foggy spotted him about to conk out at his desk. Even his hair looks flat. Karen's made him three cups of coffee already; the cup is always emptied by the time she goes to check on him, but she and Foggy are both pretty sure Matt's not drinking it. Maybe he's throwing it out the window? Or pouring it into his desk drawers?  
  
Foggy, man of science that he is, tests the waters by standing at Matt's door and lobbing a donut hole at his head. Matt lifts his arm long enough to block the attack, but he doesn't even bother to catch it. It bounces off his arm and rolls down to the floor. Tragic. Foggy throws half a dozen more, forsaking his stomach for his best friend's health, so he tells himself. The first three are batted away, but then Matt just kind of surrenders and flops back in his chair, letting the last few ping off his face.  
  
"How much powdered sugar is on my forehead?" Matt asks, head lolling sideways like a limp puppet.  
  
"None," Foggy lies. "You doing okay in here? We could call it early if you want; I don't think we're gonna get any walk-ins today."  
  
"No, no," Matt says, sort of dragging himself back upright and pawing at his laptop. "I'm good. I've still got some things to get through here."  
  
"Okaaaayyy, if you say so. I'll just mosey on back then." Foggy closes the door behind him and shares a shrug with Karen before going back to his own desk.  
  
He manages another 45 minutes of productivity before he hears a strange noise from Matt's office. It sounds a lot like the impact of flesh against flesh, which, what??  
  
Foggy pokes his head out to whisper at Karen, "Did he just slap himself?"  
  
She frowns, leaning in with a worried look on her face. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you think it has to do with his...night life?"  
  
He had considered that, but Daredevil hasn't come to him for any first aid recently. Claire sometimes drops Foggy a text if she's patched Matt up after a particularly bad night, but no, his phone's been silent on that front. Also, Matt doesn't look injured. He just looks sleep-deprived.  
  
"For once, I don't think that's the problem. There's gotta be something else afoot."  
  
Karen nods, glancing at the fourth batch of coffee she's started. "I don't know if he can make it another hour. Last time I checked, he was trying to read braille with his cheek. Should we close early?"  
  
He nods grimly at her. "Yeah, we should do that before he starts drooling on case files. You can start packing up. I'll deal with him," he tells her, and ducks back into his office. Perched up on his desk, he pulls out his phone and dials Matt's number. Several repetitions of "Foggy, Foggy, Foggy," sound from through the wall before Matt picks up.  
  
"Foggy? Why are you calling me?" Matt mumbles hazily. "Did you leave- no, you're right over there. Um. Did you need anything?"  
  
"What I need is for you to put all your stuff away, old sport. Time to go home! No ifs, ands, or buts."  
  
Matt lets out a long groan. "No, I can't go home yet." Foggy thinks he hears the thunk of Matt's head against his desk.  
  
"Yeah, not really a choice, pal. I can feel your ghost leaving your body behind for greener pastures. You need sleep, stat."  
  
"Can't sleep," Matt whines into the phone. "Everything is awful."  
  
"That's pretty dramatic. Is it too loud? Don't you have your noise-cancelling headphones?" Foggy asks, hopping off his desk and walking to the door.  
  
"They're not good enough to block out the construction," Matt sighs. "They don't start the drilling until 7, but the trucks keep coming through, and they spend all morning dragging beams all over the place. And I think someone keeps leaving flowers outside 4A, but they haven't realized Sarah doesn't like gardenias, so she throws them out in the incinerator and the smell lingers for days. And I started using these new sheets, but I haven't had a chance to soften them in the wash yet, so they still feel scratchy. Also I think there's a ratking turf war going on in the alleyway next to my building."  
  
Foggy whistles. "Wow. Everything  _is_  awful." Exiting his office, he pointlessly covers the bottom of his phone and tells Karen she can leave and that they're still on for Sunday night. She gives him a quick hug and a 'good luck', with a meaningful look at Matt's door, and then she's gone.   
  
"How long has this been going on, Matty?" Foggy asks, opening Matt's door while hanging up.  
  
Matt lifts his head a little at the sound of Foggy at the door, then drops it back onto his desk like a sad dog too old to play fetch anymore. "Four days?" he guesses, still talking into his phone.  
  
It's times like these that make Foggy wish he still had some more donut holes to throw. "Four days? You've been putting up with all this without sleep for four days – all while probably fighting people in abandoned warehouses, Jesus – and you never thought to like, go to a hotel, or I dunno, maybe call me? You know, good old Foggy? Your best pal, who has a very soft couch and no rats and zero people leaving him flowers?"  
  
"Who's not leaving you flowers?" Matt asks groggily, suspicion lacing his tone. "I'll take care of them for you."  
  
Foggy sighs, walking over and hefting Matt upright. "That doesn't even make any sense. Anyway, what you should be taking away from this is that you're coming to stay with me until all your apartment troubles are over. Which I guess is whenever the construction ends, since the other stuff we can deal with once you're done being a zombie."  
  
"No, Foggy, I can't do that to you. Who knows how long it'll take?" Matt sits up, pulling off his glasses and scrubbing at his eyes.  
  
"Remember how I said it wasn't a choice? Grab whatever you need. We're going home, you lunkhead."  
  
Matt's about to protest again, for whatever dumb reason, but Foggy puts his arms up in an X and makes a buzzing noise. They stare each other down for a minute, Matt faking it as well as he can, his eyes fixated at some spot around Foggy's left ear. Finally, Matt stands up in defeat, but he doesn't look too broken up about it. In fact, he looks calculating, like he's thinking of doing something insidious. Weird.  
  
Matt gathers everything up while Foggy hums the Jeopardy theme song to keep him moving. Once they lock up the office, Foggy keeps his arm firmly linked with Matt's, lest the guy fall right into traffic and die. Knowing Matt, he'd reflexively backflip out of danger, but that would cause so many problems Foggy would expire on the spot.  
  
"Don't fall asleep on me, got it? 'Cause if you do, I'm tossing you right into that tour bus over there. I'll tell them you're someone famous, like, I dunno, a long-lost Stark. They'll rip you to shreds trying to get pictures."  
  
"I don't think they'd buy it. I don't look rich enough." Matt rubs at his elbow where the fabric of his suit is starting to become worn.  
  
"What a sad, sad truth. Honestly, they look better than we do. Except...that's a lot of scarves for one guy. It's already late April, isn't he too hot?" Foggy squints at the band of tourists crossing the street. "They're also all wearing designer sunglasses and the same brand of jacket. I think it might be a cult," he hisses at Matt.  
  
"A wealthy cult. They must be doing something right. Maybe we should join."  
  
"As if. You'd have the nuns hunting your traitorous ass down the second you step into their creepy compound."  
  
"What nuns?" Matt asks, laughing. "I haven't been monitored by nuns in years. I mean, as far as I know. Hmmm."  
  
"If you're being spied on by undercover nuns, you're in too deep. That's my motto."  
  
They make it back to Foggy's apartment in record time, since it's barely past 3:30 pm and the streets aren't full of people on their way home. The second Matt removes his shoes, Foggy hurries him over to the bed and forces him to lie down. Matt blinks up at the ceiling, still wearing his suit and tie, his arms stick straight at his sides.   
  
"Okey dokey, time for sleeping. Good nap," Foggy blurts, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna borrow your keys and go get you some stuff from your place." He's tempted to stand around and make sure Matt really does sleep, but that seems creepy, and totally a Matt thing to do, which gives Foggy a general indication of how inappropriate it is.  
  
Matt's hand snaps out to grab Foggy's sleeve before he can leave. "Thanks for letting me stay. It's not that I didn't think I could count on you. I just thought-" He's started to fold in on himself, that eternal guilt flying in like a specter from out of nowhere to come haunt them. Foggy doesn't have room in his home for malicious ghosts. Not in this place of safety. This place of warmth.  
  
"You thought you could make it on your own. Or that you didn't deserve my help. And like always, I'm here to tell you that you're super wrong. You deserve everything." Foggy tries to keep his voice from cracking. He always was a touch too emotional for his own good. Just a touch.  
  
Matt's mouth turns upward into a wisp of a smile, but he sounds rough when he asks, "Even you?"  
  
Always and forever. "Of course me. Don't even try to argue otherwise; you know I'll win the debate. I always was the brains of this outfit."   
  
Matt regards him for a moment in silence, brushing his thumb against Foggy's skin, and then he laughs softly, releasing Foggy's arm and settling back on the bed. "I know. It's hardly fair; you can't have all the good qualities."  
  
Foggy rolls his eyes and walks over to his dresser. "You have your own kind of charm. I'm sure the whole attractive superhero schtick is a hot commodity in the right circles." After rooting around under a pile of socks, he finds what he's looking for, and tosses it to Matt. "Here, you can have this back, and you can borrow these until I get your clothes."  
  
Putting the sweatpants aside, Matt runs his hands over the t-shirt, frowning in consternation. "Is this my Sci-Fi Society shirt?"  
  
"Yep!" Foggy says cheerfully. "I filched it a few days before we took the bar. Can't remember why; I think I was trying to get back at you for something."  
  
"Huh, I always wondered what happened to it. To think it was you all along. I won't take this betrayal lightly." Matt wags his finger at Foggy, then begins loosening his tie, which Foggy takes as his cue to leave.  
  
"I'll make it up to you another day. Now please go to sleep. Call me if you need anything," Foggy says, closing his bedroom door.  
  
With Matt's keys in hand, he leaves his apartment, pausing on the steps outside to take a deep breath and think. So. They've lived together before. It wasn't a problem then, and it doesn't have to be a problem now. In fact, it might make Foggy's life easier. At least this way he'll know when Matt goes barreling out windows to battle people. Jingling the keys in his hand, he grins. He can handle a few days. It might even be fun.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy takes a cab home, his arms laden with Matt's things. Just his toiletries and enough clothes for a few days, and The Suit, hidden safely in a nondescript box. He lets himself into his apartment as quietly as possible, trying not wake Matt. Most things get tossed on the couch for now, until he can get into his bedroom to hang it all up. He tosses himself onto the couch too, nestled in against the cushions and Matt's clothes like some sort of weird roost and gets back to proofreading.  
  
At around 7, Foggy figures he should acquire dinner. Normally he gets lazy by Friday night, so he just grabs takeout, but since Matt is over already anyway, might as well make a production of it. In the depths of his pasta cabinet (dammit, Matt) he finds the box of no-boil lasagna he'd planned to make earlier that week, and gets to work. As he begins mushing all the cheese and chopped spinach together, Matt shuffles out from the bedroom, his hair sticking up in odd directions. He hasn't put his glasses back on yet, and the slight haze of sleepiness makes his features gentle, especially under the rose-dyed hues of sunset filtering in through the window. Foggy's heart hiccups, and it hits him then that he may have made a grave tactical error.  
  
This feels nothing like Columbia.  
  
"Is that the famed lazy lasagna you're making?" Matt asks, lighting up, and he looks so much better after even a few hours of sleep that Foggy feels immediate guilt over his stupid inner turmoil. He can survive a few days for Matt's sake. He just has to build up his defenses again.  
  
"Yeah, can you start the first layer of pasta and sauce? The pan is on the stove. I'm entrusting you with a very vital mission," Foggy says, hands still buried in ricotta and mozzarella. He inhales slowly, pretending he's savoring the scent of cheese rather than trying to temper his breathing.  
  
"Aye-aye, cap'n," Matt says, ambling over to check up on what Foggy's doing. Personal space boundaries are pretty malleable between them, but Foggy is instantly hyperaware of just how close Matt is standing, his chest almost pressed against Foggy's shoulder. The kind of proximity that makes him want to do something reckless. It'd be best to keep a safe distance as long as Matt's staying over.  
  
So Foggy turns toward Matt to tell him to get a move on if he wants food, but he's unprepared for the sight of Matt's eyes, dark and endless, focused solely on him. There's something in the way Matt's carrying himself, perhaps in the tilt of his head, that makes it feel like he can actually  _see_  Foggy. Irrationally, he thinks that if he doesn't turn away Matt will look through him, past the sinew and the muscle and the bone, until there's nothing left but his secrets and his soul. It's too much.  
  
Foggy breaks his gaze, attempting to focus anywhere else, so he settles on Matt's mouth, so close and so inviting. Bad call. Alarm bells start going off in his brain, a voice that sounds an awful lot like Marci yelling at him to  _get it the fuck together, Foggy, you are a grown-ass man who's been dealing with this for long enough to know better_.  
  
Imaginary Marci is right. Foggy has to get his shit together. This co-habitation isn't some sort of ridiculous fantasy romcom scenario, it's a practical solution to a temporary problem, and it  _will_ end, and things  _will_ be normal again. Foggy can be normal.  
  
"Even if you hover here, you're not going to get dinner any faster." He elbows Matt lightly away, mushing at double speed to integrate all the spinach.  
  
"Not even a taste?" and goddammit, Matt's using what he thinks is his flirty voice, the doofus. Foggy doesn't know why it works out so well for him, since he sounds like a huge dork. Maybe he's like a siren. He opens his mouth and people jump over tables to throw themselves at his feet. It'd be annoying if Foggy himself weren't also completely weak to that action. It's just sort of tragicomic instead.  
  
But Matt is still up in his grill, so Foggy resorts to playing dirty. He lifts a finger and smears a blob of spinach mush on Matt's cheek, meticulously out of range. "Here, you animal. Have fun."  
  
Matt gives it his best shot, tongue poking out as far as it can reach, scrunching up his nose and doing some intense eyebrow furrowing in his attempts to lick it away. It's disgustingly charming.   
  
"Guess your tongue needs more training. Now go clean your face and earn your keep, you layabout." Using his hips, Foggy bumps Matt away from his zone toward the sink.  
  
"I could taste it," Matt insists, wiping his cheek clean. "And general consensus is that my tongue skills are fine. Positive reviews all around."  
  
Foggy makes a face. "Totally did not need to know that, dude."  
  
Once he's convinced the mush is well mixed enough, he brings it over to the stove and starts spreading it over the layer of pasta Matt's laid down. They assemble the lasagna together in comfortable silence, until Matt starts pouring sauce on Foggy's hands, blinking innocently when Foggy yelps. Foggy is a responsible adult, so he waits until Matt puts the lasagna in the oven before he retaliates. As the water sluices through the dishsoap bubbles on his hands, he calls Matt to help him with the dishes. Matt trots over dutifully, rolling his sleeves up, and Foggy waits until he's close before lifting up the water pooling in his palms and flinging it at Matt's face.  
  
It lands a little off target, splashing Matt across the neck and chest, soaking his shirt and dripping back down onto the kitchen tiles. There's a second of peace as the only sound comes from the running water and Matt's deliberate exhale.  
  
"Is it something about this shirt? We were literally  _just_ reunited. Why can't you let us be happy together?" Matt plucks at the fabric, pouting at the damp spots.  
  
"Ha! You're the only one speaking of happiness. The shirt knows in its heart where it belongs, which is by my side!" Foggy crows, shutting off the faucet with a dramatic flick.   
  
"Whatever you say, Prince Humperdinck."  
  
Foggy gasps in outrage, balling up the dishtowel he was using to dry his hands. "Wait, that's no fair, he was never even in love with Buttercup. I'm being viciously maligned here."  
  
"Alright, Gaston, then."   
  
"That's even worse! How can you compare the purity of my feelings to those...those  _scoundrels_? This is character assassination, and I won't stand for it."  
  
Matt scoffs, catching the towel that Foggy chucks at him. "Your alleged feelings pale against mine. What we have is True Love. Not even death can stop True Love; it can only delay it for a while." He dabs at the shirt, but it's no help. "No, maybe I spoke too soon. This might be the end of us."  
  
"Boo. Stop stealing moves from Westley and get your own material," Foggy heckles. "You can just throw that in my hamper; I'm doing the laundry tomorrow anyway. All your clothes are on the couch."  
  
Matt strips off the shirt before even leaving the kitchen, because he has no decorum whatsoever, so Foggy takes the chance to scan him for injuries. There's a fading bruise under his ribcage, and a long scab along his forearm from a few weeks ago. Relieved that there's nothing worse, Foggy goes to set the table.  
  
  
  
The lasagna is decent - way better than their last attempt at cooking together. Matt continues to deny any intentional sabotage of their fried rice, which leads to Foggy listing off in detail every failed culinary venture they've suffered through, all the way back to that time they tried to make baklava in the dorm kitchen to impress a certain someone, and almost set the phyllo dough on fire. Which sparks a series of confessions from Matt about each ridiculous incident he'd had to follow through on back at school to keep up his helpless blind guy act.  
  
"...and since we were on the first floor, I just went with it. Whoosh, right out the window and into the bush," Matt says with a sheepish grin. He scrubs the plates clean with a blue sponge while Foggy wraps up the leftovers.  
  
"Are you kidding me? You had azalea leaves in your hair for weeks! You should've just deflected him."  
  
"Foggy, I wasn't going to let a drunk 1L defenestrate himself! And it's nowhere near the worst fall I've ever taken."  
  
When they finish cleaning the kitchen and putting Matt's things away, Foggy grabs the last bag from the couch and hands it to Matt, who touches the bundle inside, surprised when he recognizes the sensation.  
  
"Are these my sheets?"  
  
"Well, duh. Whose else's would I make you sleep on? Honestly, Matt."  
  
Matt follows Foggy into his room, holding his arms out for Foggy to deposit his pillow into as he pulls his old sheets off his bed. "But I'm sleeping on your couch. Was this all an elaborate plan to steal my sheets?"  
  
"Because that's a thing someone would do. I feel like you have a really bizarre perception of my hobbies. And no, you definitely need my bed more than I do." Kicking his own sheets away, he replaces them with Matt's, flailing a bit until Matt helps him lift the far corner of the mattress.  
  
"Where will you sleep?" Matt asks foolishly. He plumps the pillow in his hands, squishing it into a round shape.  
  
"Bless your pure heart. It's not like I haven't crashed on a couch for a few days before." Foggy gathers up the bedclothes from the ground and tosses them into a pile in the corner of his room. He'll deal with those later.  
  
"Oh. Um, are you sure you wouldn't rather-uh." Matt pauses to put the pillow down, looking like he used to right before he went up to debate. Steely. Ready to obliterate his opponent. "Well, it's your bed, right, so you should keep it, and I could maybe sleep w-"  
  
Foggy refuses to back down on this. Matt's not going to get any rest if he stays on the couch. "Look, you're getting the bed and that's final. You can repay me by watching this spoooooky movie with me that I've been too scared to watch without Daredevil's protection." Matt bites down on the rest of his words, nodding numbly.  
  
"What is it?" he asks, apprehensive of Foggy's spectacular taste in cinema. Foggy leads him out of the bedroom, patting him in reassurance.  
  
"It's called  _Ghost Shark_ and _-"_  
  
"Foggy, we talked about your shark problem. No more. Not after that last one."  
  
"What about  _Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf_?"  
  
"You  _just_ said the word shark again!" Matt throws his hands up in exasperation as Foggy flips through their choices.  
  
" _Dinocroc vs. Supergator_? It's shark-free. Probably."  
  
"The things I do for you," Matt grouses, sinking into the couch next to Foggy, but he links their arms again as the opening credits start. Foggy smiles into his knees, tucked up against his chest. Yep, nice and normal. It's going to be smooth sailing from here on out.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy wakes up Saturday morning to the sight of the dangerous precipice of his couch, and the cold, hard floor below. Turning so that he's flat on his back, he stares at the discolored stain on the corner of his ceiling wondering why the fuck he isn't in his bed. Then he remembers his special guest and exactly where his special guest is staying and he groans, because those two things together are exactly what he doesn't need to be thinking about.  
  
He rolls off his couch and hits the shower before going to stare into his fridge, trying to figure out what to do for breakfast. There are still three lonely eggs left in the carton, so he takes them out and cracks them into a bowl, whisking them up for scrambled eggs. They can eat some instant oatmeal too. Breakfast of kings.  
  
The sound of the bathroom door opening is warning enough for Foggy to prepare himself before turning around, because, yep, Matt is half-naked. It's nice that he feels at home enough here to wander around without putting up all his shields, but this is too much nudity for Foggy's sanity.  
  
Matt picks up a packet of oatmeal on his way to Foggy's side, shaking all the oats down to the bottom. "You're cooking a lot these days," he comments, listening to Foggy stir the eggs in the pan.  
  
"And you're shirtless a lot these days. Don't tell me you've developed a cloth allergy. That'd be fun to explain to a judge."  
  
Matt shrugs nonchalantly, replying, "I'm just waiting for my True Love to notice and return to me."  
  
Foggy very carefully does not choke on air or let his blood pressure spike, because his insides are iron and completely, absolutely deadened to Matt's atrocious behavior. "I told you, you'll get your darling dearest back later today. But seriously, put some damn clothes on if you're gonna stand so close to the pan."  
  
Matt's shoulders slump a tiny bit, and he treads away in disappointment. Foggy watches him go, bemused. He'd never realized how much Matt liked that silly t-shirt. Now he feels bad for hoarding it all this time.  
  
The reformed nudist returns to pour oatmeal and water into two bowls while Foggy distributes their eggs. They sit in front of the microwave and watch the oatmeal turn while they eat.  
  
"I should probably call animal control about the rats," Matt muses.  
  
"Good idea. Even with your skills you couldn't take them all down. What are you gonna do about the gardenias?"  
  
"I actually have my suspicions that they're not meant for Sarah. I can handle this when I go home. I just need to catch the secret admirer before they make another wrong delivery and redirect them."  
  
Foggy elbows Matt with a grin, winking salaciously. "Have you considered that  _you_ might be the object of their affections? I know a wacky courtship plan when I see one. I'm winking at you, by the way." It doesn't hurt anymore, to joke about Matt dating other people. It barely even hurts to discuss it seriously, because over the years, he's learned to accept this eventuality. Matt has trouble letting people in close, but Foggy knows that when the right one comes along, it'll happen. When that day comes, he'll hug Matt and congratulate him, and then he will lock down the vault one last time, and throw away the key. That dull ache seeping out from under his ribs might never heal, but in time, it will fade.  
  
And even if it doesn't...well, Foggy can endure it. For Matt, he would.  
  
Matt snorts and takes their oatmeal out of the microwave. "If those flowers are meant for me, then clearly this person means it as an attack. That smell is driving me up the wall."  
  
"Yeah, they should've gotten tulips instead. Not much scent. Or anemones, you'd like those."  
  
"Really? Are they your favorites?" Matt asks with his spoon sticking out of his mouth.  
  
Foggy puts a heap of brown sugar in his bowl, mixing it up as he thinks. "No, I like- what are they called. California poppies? Someone used to grow them illegally on the sidewalk near my block when I was growing up. They're these little golden orange flowers that only open up in sunlight."  
  
"That sounds nice." Matt smiles around his spoon. "I guess I never realized you knew so much about flowers."  
  
"What, didn't I tell you? Mom always wanted me to be a florist."  
  
  
  
While Matt calls animal control about his pest issue, Foggy sneaks out his final bag from Matt's place that he'd kept hidden, and throws it into his hamper, pulling it toward the door. Once Matt is done, they descend to the laundry room. Foggy puts almost everything into one washer, except for a dress shirt or two and the contents of the bag, which he washes separately.  
  
They don't bother going back upstairs. Instead, they sit on top of two unused washers, trying to see how much of a word search Matt can complete on his own. Matt runs his fingers over the letters Foggy's copied down by hand on paper for him, making faces at his word choice.  
  
"Does this say 'liability'? Why do your L's and I's feel the same? You stopped using all uppercase letters didn't you?" Matt grumbles, tracing the lines of his letters.  
  
"Eh, might've gotten kinda lazy halfway through." Foggy shrugs, flipping through the design magazine someone left behind. He stops on a picture of a beautiful, airy house on the rolling grasses of the coast. "If you could see these houses, Matt. This," he says, smacking the picture, "is what I thought a law degree would get me. You just wait. We're gonna reel in a big fish and strike it rich, then we're gonna move this whole operation out to the goddamn Hamptons and represent the disgustingly wealthy and drink lemonade all day long."  
  
"Don't lie," Matt responds, circling the words 'double jeopardy'. He jostles Foggy with his arm, giving him a knowing look. "You could never leave the city. And you'd get bored of those clients and cases within a week. You don't even like lemonade that much."  
  
"Why must you bring logic into my fantasy world? You fun-killer. Why you gotta be so anti-fun, Matt?"  
  
"Hey, it's your responsibility, remember? I'm bad at fun without you. There's actually a lot of things I can't imagine doing without you." The words sound light, but his tone is abruptly serious. Foggy feels his grip tightening around the magazine as he watches Matt, who's gone quiet and still. There's a thickness in the air, from the heat off the dryers but also from the shift in mood. "You know that, right? I don't tell you as often as I should, but it's the truth. I don't know what I would do without you."  
  
"Probably would've gotten a better grade in torts," Foggy jokes, trying to lighten the heaviness in the room.  
  
"Maybe," Matt allows, ducking his head down to hide his flashfire grin, before it fades back to somberness. "But I've never said anything more true to you than this. I can't lose you." His voice edges on strained, shot through with a dangerous level of unwarranted despair.  
  
There's so much gravity in those four words. In the beat of silence that follows, all the things Foggy wants to say flicker through his mind.  
  
_I won't leave you. Even if I die. You can't lose me, because you can't lose something that is enduringly, inescapably yours._  
  
But, most importantly: "You won't. I worry every single day that I'll lose you first."  
  
Foggy knows, with a bone-deep, unshakable certainty, as sure as the sun will rise, that one day the city will take Matt from him. No matter how much Matt cares about him, about Karen, and Claire and Father Lantom, he loves the city that much more. Matt fights for the city, he bleeds for the city so that no one else has to, but a drop of blood isn't enough. A liter of blood isn't enough for Hell's Kitchen. So Matt will fight and bleed until the day there's nothing left for him to give, and the city will demand still more, and Matt will be gone.  
  
But there's nothing he can say about it that will change Matt's ways. And it's not like he doesn't get it. Matt was right; Foggy belongs to Hell's Kitchen just as much, from the Hudson River in his veins, to the skyline and bedrock in his fingertips. It's not so easy to leave home behind. But he needs Matt to understand that his life is worth more than the city will tell him it is. So much more.  
  
"Never," Matt swears, but he looks pained, and they both know that as well-meaning as this promise is, it's hollow.  
  
"Okay," Foggy says, gentle, because it isn't, not really, but what else can he say?  
  
Matt looks like he's still being plagued by something, but a chime sounds, indicating a finished wash cycle. Foggy pats him on the back and hops down to put the clothes in the dryer. Matt follows him down, and they form an assembly line, Foggy pulling clothes out and passing them to Matt, who throws them in the dryer. The two dress shirts from the other washer are also tossed in, and once the dryer gets going, Matt walks over to Foggy to find out what he's doing.  
  
Foggy pulls his secret item out of the washing machine and stuffs it back in its bag, but not before Matt can snatch it away and examine it.  
  
"Foggy, are these what I think they are?" Matt asks slowly, tugging several inches of his new silk sheets out to feel.  
  
"Yeah, but there's a good reason," Foggy claims, trying to grab the bag back. Matt holds him at bay with one arm, while turning the fabric over in his hands.  
  
"You  _did_ steal all my sheets! Do I need to hold an intervention for you? Is this a symptom of some sort of quarter-life crisis?" Matt sounds amused, and the tension in Foggy's body decreases immediately.  
  
"No, c'mon, it's nothing weird, I'm telling you. You said you didn't break in your new sheets yet, so I kinda took the initiative and swiped them to do it for you. I still use that detergent you used to like, you know, the one that doesn't bother your skin? I figured we could air dry them by hanging it by the window, then you could just throw them in your dryer for a few minutes when you get home to soften them up." Foggy shrugs, trying to play it cool. He hadn't thought the plan was awkward at the time, but now he's not so sure.  
  
"I know I missed having you as my roommate for a reason," Matt says, breathing in the scent of his damp sheets. "This is great, Foggy, thank you. They smell like home." He beams like Foggy's just invented sliced bread.  
  
"Good. Hey, did you finish that word search?" Foggy demands with a lot of bluster to hide his blush. Matt can probably feel the blood rushing to his cheeks somehow.  
  
"I would've, but I couldn't work around your bad Latin." Matt picks up the word search to shake it at Foggy, looking extremely put-upon.  
  
"Objection, your honor, because my Latin is fucking flawless."  
  
"Overruled. You spelled  _res ipsa loquitur_  incorrectly right...here." Foggy glares at the spot where Matt is tapping.  
  
"That was a decoy! Just admit it, you're bad at word puzzles. You couldn't even find 'avocado'."  
  
"Oh, sorry, I thought that was another mistake. Since, you know, your Spanish is as awful as your Latin-" Matt has to break off, laughing, when Foggy attacks him with the bag full of his sheets.  
  
  
  
That evening, after they return from getting groceries and an unsuccessful early stint at trying to find Karen a birthday present, Foggy folds his laundry as he watches the news. There's a segment about Daredevil bringing down a drug ring; somebody snapped a picture of Matt doing an absurd midair kick. The picture is a little blurry, but that blade edge grin is unmistakable.  
  
"The aerial aspect of that move seems unnecessary," Foggy mutters to himself, pairing off his socks. Even though Matt's in the shower, Foggy assumes he can hear his commentary. "So does your face. Get that thing under control. Nobody's gonna want help from a dude who looks so happy leaping off fire escapes. And I still say the costume's pretty silly. People think you can work it though, so what do I know."  
  
"I don't recall hiring you to be my PR guy," Matt says, leaning against the back of the couch, having apparated out from the shower or some shit. Foggy clutches at his chest, pulse still raised from shock, turning to give Matt the most affronted look he can summon.  
  
"Yes, a heart attack was exactly what I wanted for Christmas, thank you."  
  
"You of all people should know what an exceptional gift-giver I am," Matt says with false arrogance, swinging over the back to fall in next to Foggy. He takes a sweater out of the laundry basket and shakes out the wrinkles.  
  
"Normally I'd agree, but after we failed to find anything for Karen today, I'm not so sure," Foggy says, handing Matt a hanger.  
  
Matt places the sweater on the finished pile. "Don't worry, we still have a month."  
  
Foggy hums, throwing his last pair of socks on the pile too. "Oh, speaking of gifts, this is for you. Keep it clean this time," he scolds, like it's not his fault in the first place.  
  
The Sci-Fi Society shirt, now folded up into a rectangle, lands in Matt's lap. "You throwing in the towel? Just giving me what I want so easily? I knew your conviction was weak," he teases, flattening the folds out of the fabric.  
  
Foggy sighs, waving his hand dismissively. "Well, who am I to stand in your way? I'm sure you two crazy kids will be very happy together. True love, right?"  
  
Matt's hands are wrapped around the shirt, but he turns his attention to Foggy, quirking a small smile. "It really is."  
  
\--  
  
The first thing Foggy does on Sunday is fall off his bed.  
  
As he lies there looking at the dust bunnies hiding under the wooden frame, he tries to come to terms with why exactly he's in this position right now, but there are no answers. Not until Matt pokes his head into the room, his smile glowing.  
  
"Good morning! You were sleeping soundly, so I didn't want to wake you up, but you took care of that yourself."   
  
Foggy squints at him, trying to piece together all the wrong things about this scenario. "How did you wake up first? You never wake up first. And why am I in here?"  
  
"You sleepwalked there," Matt says, but the blankness of his face says lielielie. Foggy's only sleepwalked like twice in his life, both times related to test anxiety, so it's all a thing of the past.  
  
"I don't believe you. There's- wait, what the hell happened to your face?!" A purple blot is blooming on his forehead.  
  
Matt flinches, but tries to recover, shrugging it off. "It's nothing, barely a bruise. It'll be gone by tomorrow."  
  
"Did you go out last night? After I fell asleep?" Foggy presses, sitting up.  
  
Matt scratches at the back of his neck, looking away. "I wasn't going to, but I could hear trouble starting up. A group of guys following a student home. And I knew you brought the suit, and I knew she needed help."  
  
"So you took care of it." Matt nods, and Foggy stands up to walk to him. "Good. She's okay? Are you okay? Did they get you anywhere else?" He tilts to look at the bruise; it isn't too bad.  
  
"No, I'm fine. She got home unharmed. It was a good night." There's a feverishly bright shine to Matt's eyes that Foggy can see behind his glasses. He's happy about the work he did yesterday, and Foggy can see why, but all he can do is thank the universe for another night safely behind them.  
  
However, this still doesn't explain the other question. "I'm glad. But why was I on the bed?"  
  
Matt's expression quickly changes from proud to shifty, and he takes a step backward, toward the door. "It's more comfortable than your couch."  
  
"That...is a factually true yet completely useless statement," Foggy says, thinking about the dream he'd had last night. There was this strange part where he was on a boat, rocking back and forth, when suddenly he felt abnormally warm. Body heat warm. He looks from the couch to the bed, and the clear path between them. "Did you move me? In my sleep?"  
  
Matt slides even further away. "I thought it would be stupid to waste the bed while I went out."  
  
"So you picked me up and moved me." Of course he did. Typical bizarre Matt logic. Foggy shouldn't be so entertained by it. "Then where did you sleep when you came home?"  
  
"On the couch. It's pretty nice." Matt strokes the arm of the couch with a fond look.  
  
Foggy does an actual, literal facepalm, making sure the smacking sound is very obvious. "Do you hear that, Matt? That's me hitting myself in the face so that I can express how much you vex me. The bed is yours as long as you're here."  
  
"But what if you're in it already?" Matt's face is set, bordering on obstinate. Stubborn as usual.  
  
"The only reason I'd be in it is because you put me there, you dork. In any case, you can just roll me over and scooch in. Henceforth you are banished from sleeping on the couch." Foggy's ready to enforce the new rule through bribery if need be, as long as he can get Matt to take care of himself.  
  
But Matt doesn't argue. He nods, his smile widening as he walks backwards to the door. "Okay, I can agree to that. Bed only. Gotcha. I've got to get going before service starts, but I'll meet you back here before lunch?"  
  
"Sounds like a plan. Have fun communing with God!"  
  
"Terrible Catholic," Matt laughs as he leaves.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy lets the cube of sugar on his tongue melt before he picks another card. Matt sits there patiently, stirring his decaf in figure-eights.  
  
It's a nine. He runs his finger over the braille, trying to imprint it in his memory. He's gotten rusty. He makes the pair and sets it down, before holding his hand out for Matt to choose.  
  
Matt runs his fingers over the edges of the cards, brushing the corner of the Queen, but bypassing her for a two instead. Foggy pouts, shuffling his cards around.  
  
"Why do I bother playing cards with you when I know you're going to cheat?" Foggy complains, popping another sugar cube into his mouth. "And why Old Maid?"  
  
"Because we got bored of Go Fish. And I'm trying very hard not to cheat, if that makes you feel better." Matt makes another pair, adding it to his pile.   
  
"Not hard enough, you charlatan," Foggy sighs as he's still stranded with the queen.  
  
"Sorry, it's always been pretty difficult to ignore your heart." Matt pauses, hand hovering over the cards. "I mean that in the least creepy way, I swear."  
  
"Don't worry, I'll take it as the adorable, invasive compliment it is." Foggy starts to inch the eight of clubs slightly higher as a feint, but he puts his cards down when he notices Karen entering the patio of the restaurant across the street with her date. "Oh, she's here! She's sitting down at a table near the door. Her date pulled out her chair for her; chivalry's not dead, I guess. He's pretty good-looking. Got a classic look to him, like the old movie stars used to, you know? Karen's-oh, she looked this way. Smiling, good sign. Okay, let's keep it cool. Incognito."  
  
Matt raises his eyebrows, waving his remaining cards in Foggy's face. "I'm not the one who's suddenly stopped playing in the middle of this century's most thrilling game of Old Maid to stare at diners across the street."  
  
"Old Maid sucks," Foggy groans, laying his head down on the table so that he can see Karen. She looks great, in that low-key stunning way she has about her. Her date seems considerate; Foggy can see her mouth moving, so he must be asking her questions instead of just babbling on about himself. "Hey, can you hear what they're talking about?"  
  
Matt whaps him in the face with the cards. "I'm not going to eavesdrop on Karen's date. C'mon, let's see how badly I can trounce you in BS."  
  
"You can't play BS with two people," Foggy argues, sitting up to help Matt gather the cards, which were obviously not the best choice for this excursion. "I knew I should've brought Connect Four."  
  
"Because two guys - one of which is  _blind_ \- playing Connect Four outside a cafe at 7 in the evening is so incognito."  
  
"Even playing cards looks kind of fishy. I guess we'll just have to sit here and pretend to enjoy each other's company." Foggy flops back down on the table, poking at Matt's cup of coffee. Then he remembers the bowl of sugar cubes, and gets an idea. "Matt. Truth or dare?"  
  
Matt, putting the rubber band back around the cards, stops to look at him incredulously. "Seriously? You didn't play enough in high school?"  
  
"Well, I certainly haven't played enough with  _you_ , and we're stuck here until we're sure Karen's not dating a murderer. So pick one. Truth or dare?"  
  
A few seconds pass as Matt tries to feel out which option would be less dangerous, but he eventually places the deck of cards on top of Foggy's head and says, "Truth."  
  
Dang. Foggy flounders to think of a good question. "Okay. Tell me one time you used your powers for evil."  
  
"Evil? When have I ever been anything other than a model citizen?" Matt spins the deck of cards on Foggy's head, but the rubber band gets caught on his hair, and he has to slap Matt's hands away.  
  
"For pettiness, then. Something frivolous and base."  
  
With delicate movements, Matt untangles the rubber band from Foggy's hair, smoothing down the strands that had gone askew. "Remember that guy who was in Trial Practice with us? With too much gel in his hair and the attitude like he owned the school?"  
  
Foggy purses his lips, thinking back. Guy with too much gel..."Wait, Tad? That was his name, right? Total asshole." He'd always had a douchey comment for Foggy. Such a dick.  
  
"Yes, that's it. Tad. Yeah, one time I hit him in the stomach with a frisbee. He was walking my way, so I just threw it where I knew he'd be."  
  
"Oh man, was this right after spring break? I was wondering why he wouldn't stop glaring at you for the rest of the semester. What'd he do to set you off?"  
  
"Enough," Matt says cryptically. "I felt a little bad at the time, but he deserved it. Anyway, your turn. Truth or dare?"  
  
A glance across the street shows that Karen's date is progressing well, but the night is still young, so Foggy doesn't want to get caught in the middle of a stupid dare if she needs an out. "Let's go with truth."  
  
Matt, leaning his elbow on the table next to Foggy's face, rests his head in his hand and jerks his thumb toward Karen. "Are you okay with this?" His voice is calm, mellow. He wants to know, but he doesn't want to upset Foggy.   
  
"I mean, even if I weren't, I'm not gonna go disrupt her date like a possessive creep. But no, it's not like that between us anyway. I love Karen, but we're just good friends."  
  
"Are you sure? You heart used to...flutter, around her." Matt's face is carefully blank, and Foggy laughs, reaching up to pinch his cheek. Matt always was too considerate of his feelings, trying his best to be a good wingman. Naturally, he was horrific at it, just by virtue of being his handsome duck self around impressionable singles, but it's the thought that counts.  
  
"There you go, cheating again. Stop using my heartbeat against me. And sure, I might've had a crush on Karen the first few weeks we knew each other, but-" _she's not you_ "-we have a mutual understanding of each other now. Platonic style." Foggy releases Matt's cheek and props himself up on his elbows so that they're now both leaning on the table staring at each other like a couple of smitten losers. "Your turn."  
  
"I should pick dare, shouldn't I? Just to live up to the name."  
  
"Yesss, just what I was waiting for." Foggy removes the cover of the bowl, and shakes one, two, whoops, fifteen sugar cubes into the remainder of Matt's tepid coffee. They sink to the bottom without dissolving much. He thrusts the cup at Matt, who gives it an appalled look. "Drink up, buddy."  
  
"There's fifteen cubes of sugar in this," Matt says.  
  
"It's a lot," Foggy agrees. "Bottoms up."  
  
Matt frowns down at his coffee for another second, before tossing it back. A disturbing crunching begins as he chews through all the solid cubes, swallowing down the sugary slush. He looks vaguely unwell when he places the cup back down. "You better prepare yourself, Foggy," he says darkly.  
  
"I pick truth!" Foggy tells him, smiling as sunnily as possible. Matt squashes his cup flat.  
  
  
  
Seven rounds later, after Foggy's revealed far too many embarrassing middle school secrets involving Brett, and Matt has managed to stuff 67 napkins in his pants pockets, Foggy relents and picks dare. He's on uneven ground now, giving Matt so much blackmail fodder, so he'll fortify his will and take whatever punishment Matt has been formulating.  
  
"That's good enough," he says, watching Matt contort to try and lick his elbow.  "Give your poor mouth a break. I'll choose dare. Give me your best shot, Murdock."  
  
"You will?" Matt freezes with his arm still twisted in an awkward angle, staring intently at Foggy.  
  
Foggy tilts his chair up on its hind legs, balancing himself with the table. "Yeah, lay it on me. Foggy Nelson doesn't back down from a dare."  
  
Matt takes in a sharp breath, bracing himself for whatever nefarious act he's about to make Foggy commit. He has that same look he gets whenever he's about to rush into something stupid, so it must really be unbelievable.  
  
"Okay. Alright. Foggy. I dare you to ki-"  
  
Before Matt can finish, their phones both ring with a text notification, jarring Foggy enough to set his chair back down. Foggy reads it for both of them, so Matt doesn't have to bother playing it aloud; it's Karen informing them that her date is over. He looks across the street, where Karen's paramour is kissing her on the cheek. She bids goodnight to him and exits the restaurant, heading toward them.  
  
"Looks like it went well," Foggy says to Matt approvingly. He waves at Karen, who hurries across the street.  
  
"That's good," Matt says, sounding strangled, but he turns to smile at Karen, who sits down breathlessly at their table, her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Did you have a good time?" he asks her.  
  
"Yeah, it was great! He's fantastic, you guys would like him. Oh, but it's also just our first date, so you know, I'll have to see how it goes next time. But I have a good feeling about this." Karen is brilliant with happiness, and it sparks a warmth in Foggy's chest to see her like this. She deserves a streak of good in her life.  
  
"Lookit our Karen, all grown up," Foggy coos, giving Karen a light punch of camaraderie. She yelps, batting him away.  
  
"Still the same age as you, Foggy," she retorts. "But thanks for tonight, guys. It made me feel better knowing you two were looking out for me."  
  
"Anytime," Matt says warmly, standing up, and offering his arm to her. "Ready to go home?"  
  
"If you don't me mind breaking up your date," Karen says, linking her hand in, with a sage look at Foggy.   
  
He takes her other arm, refusing to get flustered. "Nonsense, we always have time for you."  
  
They walk onward toward Karen's in peace, until she looks down at Matt's legs. "Matt, why the hell do you have so many napkins?  
  
\--  
  
About half an hour after he and Foggy return to the apartment, Matt stops in the middle of their extremely aimless game of Connect Four and grits his teeth, pressing a piece so hard between his fingers that it starts to leave a dent.  
  
Foggy's no fool. He pries at Matt's fingers until he releases the checker, and tells him bluntly, "Go. Do what you have to do. Just come home to me in one piece, okay?"  
  
Matt closes his hand around Foggy's, squeezing once. "I'll be careful," he promises, standing up sharply.  
  
" _My_ idea of careful, not yours." Foggy says, following Matt to his room, where the suit is hidden. He turns away as Matt strips down.  
  
Once he's dressed, Matt opens the window, about to jump out, but he turns back to Foggy to clap him on the shoulder. "We'll finish that game tomorrow," he says, lingering for a moment longer, as if he wants to say more. But after Foggy nods, Matt takes off.  
  
Without Matt in the room, Foggy finds himself at a loss for what to do. It's too early to sleep, not that he could anyway, knowing Matt's out there somewhere in the dark and the din. He manages to burn an hour by reading the book he's been neglecting for months, but he gets to a fight scene and has to put it down. So then he sits in bed with his laptop, checking on his email and rereading the files for their current case. But work means things he wants to discuss with Matt, who is very much not here, so he puts that aside after a while too and just paces around his house.  
  
The clock says 12:14. Matt won't be back for a few more hours. Foggy goes to his recycling bin and fishes out old copies of the Times for its crosswords. Laying them flat on the floor, he sits in the center and tries to complete five at once, googling all the answers he doesn't know.  
  
He finishes Monday's without much trouble, and completes most of Tuesday and Wednesday too, before checking the clock again. 1:37. Not late enough. It's past midnight, which means it's high time he had a midnight snack. Sitting under his window, watching Matt's silk sheets drifting against the wind, he takes a clean scoop of peach sorbet, savoring the chill. The taste makes him think of summer, and he makes a mental note to bring up a company beach trip at work on Monday.  
  
When he's finished his sorbet, he stands up to pace again, regretting that time he turned down mom's offer to learn how to knit. That would've been a useful hobby. He could even make presents and stuff for people. Instead, he bakes, which doesn't help the softness around his tummy, but did make him a big hit in seminars. He bakes when he's happy, when he's stressed, and when he's bored, and boy, is he bored right now.  
  
He doesn't have any buttermilk for soda bread, but he does have cocoa powder, so he settles on a quick Swedish chocolate cake. Matt and Karen both like chocolate; he's going to be the most popular guy in the office tomorrow. It takes him ten minutes to throw the ingredients together and stick his pan in the oven, and then he's stranded with nothing to do. Again.  
  
1:58. It'll be another half hour until his cake is done; it feels like an eternity. Matt's out there possibly getting his lights punched out and Foggy's in here watching a sticky cake rise. It's not right. Leaving the kitchen, he goes and takes out his box of bandages to prepare for Matt's return, then he goes and takes down the sheets, in case Matt stumbles into them covered in blood. He folds the sheets back together neatly, singing the work song from Cinderella under his breath.  
  
"...still they holler, keep a-busy, Cinderfoggy...something, something, a dream is a wish your heart makes," he trills, coughing as the notes get too high. Those little cartoon mice must've been on helium. The sheets are put away with Matt's other things, but his phone timer says 25 minutes left on the cake, so he falls backwards on his bed, still humming.  
  
He doesn't remember any other songs from Cinderella. In fact, the only song he can recall right now is Don't Fear the Reaper, which is so thematically inappropriate for the task at hand that he chases it from his brain. He's scared he's jinxed Matt for even thinking about it, so he starts projecting happy, loving thoughts toward Matt in hopes that it'll cancel out his mistake. It doesn't feel like enough, so he tries to think of a happy, loving song to send along with it.  
  
It's not like Matt can actually read thoughts. And Foggy could conceivably be singing about anyone.  
  
So he breaks out the Whitney Houston and the TSwift, and the sappiest of the Beatles that he can remember. Quietly, at first, because it's 2 am, and he's not a total jerk. But by the time he's moved onto Foreigner and his timer goes off, he's a little bit too into it. He turns the oven off, putting the cake on the stovetop to cool in its pan, starting that one song from the Partridge Family. He keeps singing as he fishes out his cooling rack, and when he turns to put the rack on the kitchen island to use later, he's practically belting.  
  
"...I'd hide it to myself, and never talk about it, and did not go and shout it when you walked into the room– _I think I love you!_ "  
  
"Um," Matt says.  
  
Foggy drops the rack with a clatter. His heartrate has shot out of the atmosphere and over the moon, but before he can manufacture a bunch of shitty excuses for why he's yelling love songs in the middle of the night, he sees the trickle of blood under Matt's jaw. "Oh, fuck, are you okay? You're bleeding, get in here, come on." Matt finishes climbing in the window, locking it closed behind him and does as Foggy says, his mouth in an odd twist.  
  
"It's not that bad, no, I'm serious," he swears as Foggy makes a disbelieving noise. "Just a nick from a knife. A scratch."  
  
Foggy snorts, running back over from the sink to wipe the blood away. "Are you sure about that? I'm not gonna poke you and have you keel over on me, will I?"  
  
"No keeling, I promise," Matt says, letting Foggy put the bandaid on. "So. You're not going to leave me to chase your dreams on Broadway, right? I don't think I can save the world on my own."  
  
"It's preposterous that you would even ask that. Butcher, florist, Broadway star? You think I could do those jobs and watch out for your sorry self at the same time? I'm not superhuman, Matty."  
  
"That's exactly what a superhuman would say to throw me off the scent." Matt yanks off his mask, ruffling at his hair. "But you didn't have to wait up for me. You should be asleep right now."  
  
"And miss the conclusion to our hair-raising game of Connect Four?" Foggy touches the bruise at Matt's temple from yesterday. It does look a little better.  
  
"Foggy, I know you already won twice," Matt says wryly. "Go to sleep. You'll be tired at work tomorrow."  
  
"We'll both be tired at work tomorrow. Poor Karen. Good thing I made a cake to bribe her with," Foggy pulls Matt up off the couch. "You should go get changed while I take care of the cake."  
  
Matt nods, and goes to the bedroom while Foggy removes the cake from the pan onto the rack, covering it with a paper plate. When he enters his room, Matt is sitting at the edge of the bed, looking conflicted. Foggy leans against the door and raises his eyebrows. Whatever problem Matt has with the bed now, he'd better spit it out, because Foggy is tired as hell and ready to sleep standing in this spot if need be.  
  
"What's up now? I don't have bedbugs, but you should already know that."  
  
"Are you sure you don't mind sharing with me?" Matt ducks his head, avoiding eye contact. Oh. Foggy should've factored this into his calculations.  
  
"Hey, it's fine if you don't want to share-"  
  
"No! I don't have a problem with it if you don't!" Matt says hurriedly, waving his arms. Foggy shoots him a look that he hopes conveys how silly Matt is, glaring extra hard so Matt can feel it.  
  
"Okay, shove over then." Foggy waits until Matt has moved over to lie down next to him, already halfway gone. "Sweet dreams; see you in the morning," he mumbles through his yawn to Matt, who's finally relaxed into the mattress.  
  
"Goodnight, Foggy," Matt whispers back.  
  
\--  
  
From far, far away, the sound echoes, tugging at Foggy's attention. It seems important, but at the same time, he can't bring himself to care.  
  
But it won't stop. So he flaps his arm around to try and reach the source, and finally he's able to grab it, but his thumbs are too clumsy to make it stop without opening his eyes. So he peels his eyes open, tapping absently at his phone to turn the alarm off, but he freezes when he notices the time.  
  
Shit. They are  _so_ late.  
  
Scrambling up, he tries to get off the bed, but his arm is trapped under something heavy- oh, Matt. Right.  
  
"Matty, wake up, you loafer!" He pulls his pinned arm free, but Matt's leg is flung over Foggy's, and his hand has somehow found its way a few inches up Foggy's shirt. Foggy has to roll his eyes, because how can one guy be such a player even in his sleep?   
  
"Get offa me, you octopus," Foggy scolds, rolling Matt off of him. "Karen's gonna be so pissed; wake up!" He waits until Matt's eyes open before he runs off to brush his teeth.  
  
Matt finally sits up in bed as Foggy's buttoning his shirt and trying to hop into his pants at the same time. "Do you need help?" Matt offers uselessly, and Foggy throws his socks at him. Matt catches them effortlessly, still blinking the sleep away.  
  
"No, I need you to be work-ready in six minutes, so get a move on!"  
  
Matt grabs his watch from Foggy's nightstand, and bolts when he feels what time it is. Foggy manages to look mostly presentable, sliding his tie pin in place as Matt finally exits the bedroom.  
  
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's go before Karen fires us as her bosses," Matt says, grabbing his cane, and dragging Foggy to the door.  
  
"Wait, I need the cake!" Foggy escapes Matt's hold long enough to flip the cake onto its plate and grab it, and then they're out the door.  
  
They make it the office only three minutes late, Foggy gasping for breath, and Matt clutching the cake like a lifeline. Karen stands at the door, tapping her foot and wearing the most displeased expression she can muster when she's trying not to laugh at them panting against the wall.  
  
"Good morning, Karen. Please don't quit," Matt says, thrusting the cake at her as Foggy lets them into the office.  
  
"Aw, Foggy, you shouldn't have," Karen says, but she's holding the cake tight, and never letting go.  
  
Matt frowns as he follows them in. "I don't get any thanks? That cake could be from me."  
  
Karen touches his arm kindly, but her tone is dry when she responds. "Matt, no offense, but you should just stick to the things you're good at."  
  
  
  
At noon, Matt is too occupied with his research to go out for lunch, so Foggy and Karen leave to pick up takeout and bring it back to the office. Karen waits until they're on their way back with sandwiches before she springs her interrogation on Foggy.  
  
"So, how was your weekend?" she asks, eyes wide and innocent.  
  
"My weekend was fantabulous, thank you for asking. How was yours?" Foggy refuses to be drawn into her spell.  
  
"Foggy, you know what I mean! Did anything happen? Did he make a move?"  
  
Foggy chuckles, because darling Karen is sweetly delusional about the state of his and Matt's relationship. "Karen, nothing happened except two pals hanging out and being pals. Regular friend stuff. No moves were made by anyone, upon anyone." Because Foggy has got this pining thing down. It was trying at times, but he's no amateur. He'd called the city about the construction and found out it would be over by Monday night, so Matt's moving back home today after work; after today, everything will be normal again.  
  
"That chicken," Karen mutters, kicking a rock out of her way with more force than needed.  
  
"That's not fair to Matt. It's not like he knew you wanted him to hit on me." Foggy feels like he ought to defend Matt since the guy can't do it for himself. He knows Karen just wants him to be happy, but there are some things that are out of their control.  
  
Karen huffs, walking faster, leaving Foggy to hurry after her. When he does, she loops her arm with his, pulling him close to her side. He can feel her body heat against his arm, and smell the lavender notes of her perfume. There's a certain comfort in it.  
  
"Foggy, sometimes I wonder if Matt's the only blind one," she says with a sigh. He makes to protest, but she hushes him, continuing on. "You two have been together so long that maybe you can't see it anymore, but I can. Somewhere along the line, you tricked yourself into thinking Matt doesn't feel the way you do about him, and I just want to  _shake_ you until you see.  
  
"Matt's like a sunflower, and you're like the sun. No, not quite. Matt's like those little flowers, the orange ones that open up in the daytime?"  
  
"California poppies," Foggy tells her, his throat suddenly dry. His heartbeat wavering.  
  
"Yes! Matt's a California poppy, and you're the sun. When you're not around, he's still awesome and nice and helpful. But sometimes he seems sort of sad, you know? Lost. But when he's with you, he  _blooms_. He's  _radiant_ , but you don't notice, because he's  _always_  radiant to you. It's like you love him so much it fried your brain and gave you selective blindness."  
  
She looks at him, waiting for him to respond, but he doesn't know what to say. He wants to believe her, but years of contrary evidence are hard to ignore.  
  
_But how do you know you haven't tampered with the evidence?_   Imaginary Marci asks.  _Opposing counsel's got a pretty reliable witness.  
  
_ "Karen, I don't think it's that simple," is all he can say.  
  
She smiles at him sadly. "I know. I just want you to think it over. You two deserve to be happy."  
  
Happy. Foggy's plenty happy. Sure, he'd be happier if Matt loved him back, but the universe doesn't rearrange itself on the whims of dirt-poor lawyers.  
  
So it's fine. He's happy enough.  
  
\--  
  
"But how do we prove the cash wasn't there in the first place?" Foggy counters, trotting along, arms wrapped around Matt's clothes.  
  
"You said the convenience store security cameras didn't have anything, but what about the ATM? I know the range of sight is limited, but maybe it caught something." Matt is holding just as many bags, the Daredevil suit safely tucked in a box between his sheets.  
  
"Yeah, let's check that tomorrow. You sure you don't want to go out to Josie's with us tonight?" Drinking with friends is a good, normal activity. Foggy's had plenty of practice keeping his emotions in check even when drunk.  
  
Matt shakes his head ruefully. "No, I should clean up my place. Who knows what kind of mess you left there when you stole all my sheets?"  
  
"Borrowed. The word you're looking for is 'borrowed'."  
  
They slow to a halt when they reach Matt's apartment, stopping next to the wall, away from the tape cordoning off the section of street that's undergoing construction. Matt turns around to face Foggy before they enter the building; he looks healthy. Well-rested.  
  
"Thanks again for letting me stay," Matt says, his smile almost hidden behind all the junk he's holding.  
  
Foggy shuffles in place, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "No problem. It was fun, kinda like the old days. We should do it again sometime; I'm gonna master Old Maid for our rematch. Even reading my heartbeat won't help you."  
  
"Whatever makes you feel better," Matt says, letting them in.  
  
They dump Matt's stuff on the floor, but Matt waves off Foggy's offers to help him put stuff away. Foggy tries one last time to invite Matt out, but he shakes his head, walking Foggy out the door.  
  
"Alright, but I'm telling you, Karen and I are gonna tear up the town. You'll be sorry you missed it."  
  
"Maybe. Hey, before you go, I wanted to ask you something," Matt says, his voice odd.  
  
Foggy turns toward Matt to listen, but before he can say anything, Matt is in his space, leaning in, closer, closer...  
  
Matt is kissing him. It's a quick kiss, easy and light, and Foggy instinctively presses his lips gently into it before Matt draws away, his cheeks flushed.  
  
"Uh. We sure did just do that," Foggy says dumbly, touching his fingers to his mouth.  
  
Matt takes in a deep breath before he begins talking. "You always tell me to communicate better, so I'm going to try to use my words. I want to go on a date with you, Foggy."  
  
"A date," Foggy parrots back blankly, his brain still stuck on the moment 10 seconds ago.  
  
"Yes. Well, not just one date. A lot of them. All of the dates," Matt says, as if that makes any sense.  
  
"You want to go on all the dates. With me."  
  
"Yep. I mean, I want more than that. I want-" Matt's started to tense, so Foggy grabs his hands before he tries to run away. He draws circles on Matt's palms with his thumbs, trying to make it soothing.  
  
"What do you want, Matty?" Foggy asks quietly. Matt closes his hands around Foggy's, holding him still. Foggy can feel Matt's pulse through his fingers, and it's feather-light, flying at the speed of sound like his.  
  
"I want everything. I want to wake up next to you in the mornings, I want to make you bad pancakes and dance with you like we're at prom; I want to be with you at work and come home to you at night, I want to keep you safe from danger, and watch you save the city one person at a time.  
  
"I thought I could just  _want_ forever and it would be fine. It would be enough, because even if I couldn't have the things I wanted, I would still have you. As a best friend and a partner. And if that was all, it would already be more than I deserve, especially after everything. But you like to remind me that I'm worth more than I think, and sometimes, I think maybe if I spent the rest of my years being the best I can be, for you and for the city, that I'd be good enough to deserve all of you.  
  
"And maybe I cheated a little, listening to your heartbeat, but you have to know, if you could hear mine, it would have been ten times as incriminating as yours. I love you, Foggy."  
  
Foggy's brain is still processing this overload of data, but his mouth always moved a bit faster than the rest of him. "I love you too," it says helpfully for him, even while he's still staring at Matt in amazement.  
  
And then Matt smiles at him, and Foggy thinks he understands what Karen means when she says radiant. Matt is incandescent, and Foggy finds it hard to believe that he could be the sun when Matt's the one who's so luminous.  
  
"I wanted to tell you when I was staying over, but I could never get it out. I hoped maybe I could instigate you into confessing first, but that was disastrous," Matt says, still beaming at Foggy.  
  
Foggy raises his eyebrows. "You tried to do what?"  
  
"Don't worry, I was doing a terrible job; I don't blame you for not noticing."  
  
"Well, I think your plan worked out in the end," Foggy says, leaning up and leaving another chaste kiss on Matt's cheek. "Even though it took us years."  
  
Matt looks at Foggy so fondly that he thinks he might burst. "I know I've said we're a little bit married, but I want us to do this properly, without rushing."  
  
"Okay, that's fine. We already have the hard stuff figured out. The fun, romantic stuff will be easy. Dates," Foggy says shaking his head, his hands still held in Matt's. "I can't believe it."  
  
"You'd better get used to it. We're going to be the best damn dating avocados this city has ever seen," Matt says, and when Foggy falls into him, laughing, he doesn't let go. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, friends, this is it! If you didn't anticipate the events of this chapter, you probably underestimated the extent to which I am fluff-loving garbage, so prepare yourself. Thanks so much to everyone who stuck by these goofballs and their shenanigans, and I hope you enjoy the conclusion!

+1.  
  
  
"Foggy, what the hell are these? Candles? You think my mom wants to smoke a  _candle_?"  
  
"What? No, I think your mom would like to use some beautiful scented candles in the way nature intended them to be used: as an aesthetic and aromatic ornament for the home. Jesus, Brett. Give me some credit."  
  
As the first snowfall of the year descends around him and Brett, Foggy deeply regrets not grabbing the scarf Matt made for him. It's dangling on the hook by his door, soft and lovely, and totally not wrapped around Foggy's poor frostbitten neck. It would be marginally better if he and Brett were inside the precinct, but neither want the other cops to see them cavorting with the enemy. So they exchange presents conspicuously in front of the building instead. Excellent life choices.  
  
Before Brett can give the candles another dubious once-over, Foggy shoves more bags at him. "Here, this one's for you, from my parents, and this is also for Bess – don't open it, you'll ruin the packaging – and this is from us. I really wanted to get you a Nelson and Murdock sweater, but well. We don't have any company branded apparel yet. You'll be first on the list to get one once we do."  
  
"That is the exact opposite of what I want." Brett exchanges his parcels with the bags in Foggy's arms. "Parents, your sister, you, and one from mom," he rattles off, pointing at each gift in turn. "Sorry, forgot to get Murdock something. Guess he'll have to wait until you guys tie the knot. Which hopefully won't be for a couple of years; this gift exchange is unbalanced in your favor enough as it is."  
  
"All the more reason for you to hurry up and grace some unfortunate soul with your loving, Brett. Get married, have some kids. Even out the playing field a bit."  
  
Brett shoots him an acutely critical look. "Didn't we make a pact like ten years ago to never, _ever_ discuss our private lives again? I'm pretty sure we did."  
  
They did. All romantic talk was forever off the table after the Amy Carpenter Affair. Even thinking those words conjures up awkward memories better left suppressed. "You brought mine up first!" Foggy says anyway, fully demonstrating his firm grasp of adult emotional maturity and top-notch lawyering skills.  
  
"No, you don't have a personal life anymore. It doesn't count as private if I'm subjected to you two making moon eyes at each other every damn time I see you."  
  
"We do no such thing," Foggy scoffs. At worst, he and Matt might stare tenderly at one another once in awhile, but nothing so amorously obnoxious as  _moon eyes_.  
  
"You do. Ask your poor secretary." Another cop elbows Brett as she walks by, jerking her head toward the door, and Brett nods, gathering up all his gifts. "I gotta head in. You two better not show your faces around here together anytime soon. I can't handle anymore soulful gazing. Send Murdock alone the next time you want something."  
  
"Wait, why Matt? What, I'm not good enough for you anymore, Mahoney?" Foggy yells at a departing Brett. "I thought you and I had a nice reciprocal animosity going on here! We have history!"  
  
At the door, Brett pauses to call down to him, "Yeah, sure, but at least I know Murdock's never gonna try and seduce my mom away with cigars. It's a refreshing change."  
  
"Oh, come on, you know I'm not  _seducing_ her. Anyway, the bribery's part of the whole experience!" Foggy hollers back, but Brett disappears inside with a final flip of the bird to send him off.  
  
Foggy is not a child, so he doesn't stick his tongue out, but it's a close thing. The chill sets in as the snow flurries intensify, so he hurries off toward the office before he becomes a Fogsicle.  
  
To his surprise, he arrives to find Matt standing outside, flecks of snow melting in his dark hair. He's touching the sign again, feeling out each ridge of the raised letters, rubbing his thumb over the 'A' in 'and'. When he turns his head at the sound of Foggy's footsteps the wind picks up, tousling his hair with a sprinkling of powder. He closes the gap between them with his hands outstretched, pressing his ice-touched fingertips to Foggy's bare neck. The cold makes Foggy shudder, and he hugs his packages closer to keep in all the warmth Matt is sapping from him. Matt's smile, at first sweet and syrup slow, sharpens as he leans in to kiss Foggy. All the heat that's missing from his hands is gathered in his mouth, burning through the winter chill in Foggy's lungs as they kiss, Matt breathing a pyre into Foggy's veins and synapses.  
  
Foggy blinks at Matt when they pull apart, slightly heat-dazed. Matt is wrinkling his nose as he catches the presents slipping out from Foggy's hands.  
  
"Foggy, when did you have the time to eat cheetos today?"  
  
"More like, when am I  _not_ eating cheetos?" The answer is, whenever Matt's nearby. He always kicks Foggy's snacks out of reach.  
  
They enter the office bickering about Foggy's indomitable love for Frito Lay. Karen's already at her desk, shivering despite still wearing her coat, balled up in her chair with her hands tucked under her knees. At first Foggy thinks he's just shivering in sympathy for her plight, but then the draft from the door sends a small stack of paperwork to the ground and he realizes that it's just really damn cold, even inside.  
  
"Heat. So. Broken," Karen bites out from between her teeth chattering. Foggy looks down at her cup of coffee, which has congealed into a cooled sludge. It looks like it might gain sentience if left to its own devices for long enough.  
  
Matt goes over and knocks on the radiator with his cane. It doesn't even make its usual low gurgling sound. "You're right. I'll go call it in with maintenance. Karen, who's coming in today?"  
  
"No one; Mrs. Greenberg rescheduled for Thursday." Karen accepts the papers that Foggy finishes picking up off the floor, standing up to file them away.   
  
"Good. I don't think we could receive clients like this. So!" Matt claps his hands together briskly. "Who wants to work at the cafe today?"  
  
"Ooh, we do!" Foggy says, lifting Karen's arm along with his. Karen does a little rah-rah motion with her other hand. "Pick us!"  
  
Matt taps his foot for a second, thinking it over, before pointing to them with a grin. "Okay, Nelson and Page it is! I'll call the landlord, Foggy will make a sign for the door, and Karen will grab the McKinley files. Let's go." Matt puts the Nelson family gifts on the conference table and takes out his cell, stepping into his office to call.  
  
"Yes, good coffee, here we come!" Foggy cheers, provoking Karen into pinching his hand and making a face.  
  
On a blank sheet of paper, Foggy leaves a note saying that any and all visitors can go inquire for them at the cafe, and tapes it to the door. He doesn't think anyone's going to come calling the day after the new year, but it wouldn't do to lose any potential clients. The lot of them hustle out of the building once Matt's off the phone, staying clustered together like penguins as they hurry to the coffeehouse.  
  
Inside, Karen and Matt find them a cozy spot in a quiet corner. Foggy gets in line to order (chamomile tea for Matt, cinnamon hot cocoa for Karen, and a cappuccino for himself), and while he waits for their drinks, he people-watches. The shop isn't that busy today; most people are finishing their extra holiday day indoors, away from the snow and the cold. He spots a group of students relaxing by the window, an old couple settling in to read the news, and a family filing out the door, each kid with a croissant in hand.  
  
When he turns back to observe Karen's hand warming process – she rubs her hands together for several seconds, before blowing hot air on each hand and wiggling her fingers: rinse and repeat – Matt senses his gaze and directs his attention toward the bar, leaning forward on his elbows. Lifting one hand to his lips, he blows a kiss at Foggy, who pretends to dodge it. Matt looks offended at that, flattening his lips into a stern pink line. But he doesn't give up. He sends off another three kisses in quick succession, and Foggy has to try very hard not to laugh at his dorky boyfriend. Waving his hand around in the space before him, he mimes smacking each kiss out of the air. The barista calls his name right after that, so he turns around to put all his cups in a tray to carry them to the table.  
  
Matt is pouting when Foggy returns, and continues to do so as he stirs honey into his tea, even as Foggy drags his chair right up next to him. Karen, using her drink as a handwarmer first and foremost, watches Matt remove his teabag and staunchly ignore Foggy resting his head on his shoulder. After popping the lid off her drink, she sets it down and takes the teabag, depositing it on the lid.  
  
"Foggy, have a sip," she offers, pushing her drink toward him. Foggy stops his ineffective snuggling and does so, humming in appreciation as the hot chocolate, spicy and rich, sears a trail of heat through his body. As he hands the cup back to Karen, the corner of her mouth twitches and she looks pointedly at his lips. He licks the whipped cream away, but she just smiles sneakily, taking a sip herself.  
  
Foggy frowns, turning to Matt for assistance. "Matt, is there whipped cream on my face?"  
  
Matt, pathologically incapable of containing his smartassery, raises an eyebrow and makes a big production of removing his sunglasses, crowding Foggy against the back of his chair, eyes wide and looming. "Why don't I take a look and see? Oh, wait, my apologies. Still blind," he intones, pressing their foreheads together.  
  
Foggy plants a hand right on Matt's horrible handsome face and pushes him away as Karen giggles. "You know what I mean," he says, with an eye-roll. Matt always has to be so dramatic. "Do I smell like whipped cream or not?"  
  
For a moment, Matt looks torn between answering his question and sulking again, but when Foggy begins chewing on his bottom lip while awaiting a response, he places his glasses on the table. "The real question is whether you  _taste_ like whipped cream or not," he replies, crowding in again. Foggy doesn't push him off this time.  
  
The heavy smack of paper against wood, followed by Karen's very boisterous throat-clearing forces them apart after thirty seconds. "Boys, no making out in the office. It makes us seem unprofessional," she clucks, handing Foggy a thick file.  
  
"Because setting up shop at a coffee joint doesn't already blow the illusion of professionalism," he remarks, but he opens up the file and gets to work.  
  
\--  
  
By noon, the flurries outside have become a more serious storm, with a couple of inches beginning to gather on the streets. Foggy watches at the window of the cafe as the world outside is transformed into a dreamscape of whirling snow.  
  
"Matt," he whispers, looking back at their table to see Matt make the slightest pause in his typing when he hears Foggy's voice. "Maybe we should turn in for the day. It's looking pretty bad out there." He continues to observe the perfect geometry of the snowflakes melting against the plate glass as he waits for the familiar pattern of footsteps combined with cane to arrive.  
  
Sure enough, Matt comes up next to him, and inspects the situation in his own way, listening for the crunch of footfall in snow and the muffled wetness of tires turning through slush. "You know, if we keeping leaving work early, it's going to hurt our already shabby reputation," he says lightly. "I hear you can review lawyers on Yelp these days."  
  
"Then it's a good thing we don't rely much on our online presence to obtain clients, isn't it? Nothing wrong with good old-fashioned oral and print communication for publicity."  
  
"Word on the street is that Nelson and Murdock can't even afford to keep the heat on. People say the electricity's next to go."  
  
Foggy splutters at the lie. "You can't guilt trip me with that, since we all know it's not our fault."  
  
Matt's chuckle is teasing. "Yeah, you're right. Let's make it a half-day. Finish up that vacation we missed out on." Their New Year's Eve celebration had been cut unexpectedly short when Claire got called away on an emergency and Karen's boyfriend made a surprise early return from visiting his parents.  
  
"Oh, good idea! You wanna call Claire to see if she's working the night shift? We could all go to my place and make brunch or something."  
  
"Sure, why don't you go ask Karen if she's ready to go?"  
  
Karen is sifting through a few sheets in her lap, sorting them into two piles on the table when Foggy pokes her with a stirrer. She pats at his hand absently, dividing up the last papers in her hands, before paperclipping each pile together.  
  
"Hey, Karen," he stage-whispers, sitting down and scooting his chair close to her. "There's a rumor going around that the firm's taking a half-day today. You should pack up and get ready to leave before they change their minds."  
  
Karen widens her eyes, folding her smile away at the corners of her mouth. "I hope you have a reputable source. I'll be totally humiliated if I'm the only one who gets caught ducking out early."  
  
"My source is extremely reputable. Just between the two of us, I may or may not be having carnal relations with one of the partners," Foggy says, tossing his hair behind his shoulder.  
  
Karen's gasp is appropriately shocked, but for the laugh slipping out at the end. " _Foggy_! Sleeping your way to the top? Who is it? Is it," she lowers her voice to a hiss, "Mr. Nelson?!"  
  
"Shhh! Keep it down, would you? I don't need people to know about me and Mr. Franklin P. Nelson, esq, the handsomest member of the whole firm."  
  
"The funniest, too," Karen sighs dreamily.  
  
"Absurdly charming."  
  
" _So_ brilliant. You better not let Mr. Murdock find out. He's been after Mr. Nelson for years. He'll fire you on the spot if he discovers you stole his man," Karen warns, putting her files away.   
  
"Well, if he liked it, then he shoulda put a ring on it," Foggy sniffs, putting his laptop back in his bag.  
  
"Who's trying to steal Foggy from me? I'll fight them," Matt says as he walks over. He prods Foggy's leg gently with his cane, putting on his 'I'm so innocent and blind' look when Foggy hops around trying to avoid it.  
  
"No one you need worry about. Hey, actually, if anything,  _you're_ the one stealing people from  _me_. If Brett tries to proposition you to become lifelong enemies, you'd better not accept."  
  
"He's finally come to his senses, hasn't he?" Matt grins smugly, pulling his coat back on. "We were always destined to be friendly nemeses. I mean, given the state of circumstances, he doesn't know that, but in his heart he must have felt it."  
  
Foggy takes the files from Karen as she bundles up. Matt tries to take his arm and he grudgingly allows it, sliding his hand into his pocket. "Don't you fucking dare, Matt. Brett was my frenemy first; you can't just swoop it with your pretty face and your ridiculous theatrics and take my place."  
  
"Sorry, sweetheart. I can't help being so detestable. It's truly a curse."  
  
Once Karen's all set, they depart, hurrying back across the street to the office to drop everything off. As Karen's filing everything away, Matt takes the sign down, tossing it in the recycling bin.  
  
"Claire's on shift right now, so it'll just be the three of us," he tells Foggy, who's trying to balance all his parcels in his hands as efficiently as possible.  
  
"She's been really busy lately. Let's treat her to a round at Josie's once the weather's better. Karen, you up for brunch? Miraculously, even Matt cannot ruin bacon."  
  
Karen glances up from her desk, looking apologetic. "Sorry, Foggy. Brunch sounds great, but I was actually going to visit Doris today."  
  
"Oh, okay, that's cool. You want us to come along?"  
  
"No, you guys go home and enjoy a day to yourselves. We're gonna have a girls' day in," Karen says with a smile. "I owe her a rematch in cribbage."  
  
"You and your old person games."  
  
"Call us when you're going home tonight," Matt says, ushering them all out of the office. "Don't get caught out in the storm."  
  
"Okay, you worrywart," Karen promises, giving them each a hug. "Try not to burn down Foggy's kitchen."  
  
"Who, me? Karen, please. I've got plenty of experience with fire."   
  
Foggy groans into his presents. "Oh my god, please do not elaborate on that. Karen does not need to hear about the pipebombs and the Irish mob."  
  
\--  
  
They sit on Foggy's bed, Matt winding a ball of yarn and Foggy trying to get through the Indigo Plateau in the ancient copy of Pokemon Blue he unearthed from his parents' place last month. Matt had learned to knit last summer from a former client when Foggy had expressed interest in the hobby; he kept at it even though Foggy got impatient an hour into the lesson and had run off to bake muffins with the client's grandchildren instead.  
  
The line of plum colored yarn (half silk, half cashmere because there are some luxuries Matt can never skimp on), brushes against Foggy's wrist, causing him to turn his attention to Matt, who's stopped winding. He's leaning back against the headboard, eyes closed, listening to something beyond the scope of the apartment.  
  
Foggy saves his game in the middle of a cave, waiting for the box of text that signifies it's safe to turn off the system. Plucking up the yarn, he tugs a few inches out of the skein, twisting a loop around each finger of his left hand. Matt opens his eyes when he feels the tension in the yarn, and he looks down, seeking out Foggy's hand with his own. He runs his thumb over the loops, idling on Foggy's ring finger.  
  
"Someone out there arguing about socket wrenches again?" Foggy lets Matt extricate the yarn from his hand, and place the ball aside.  
  
"Probably. No, I'm just listening to the snow. It muffles the sounds of the city, like a dampener. Just a layer of quiet on everything, and there's that repetitive drumming as it lands that I like."  
  
From the bed, Foggy can see enough into the other room and out the window to note that the snowfall has slowed back to a gentle drift, clinging to the trees and the rooftops. "How many inches did we get so far?"  
  
Matt cocks his head, seeking out the sounds he needs. "I'd say about five."  
  
Five. That's not too bad if they don't wander too far. "Alright, get your lame fuzzy boots on. We're going out." Foggy slides off the bed to stretch out his back muscles.  
  
"Out where?"  
  
"I dunno, Central Park or something. I wanna hit you with a snowball."  
  
"You couldn't," Matt denies. "I'd hear it from a lightyear away."  
  
"Can't dodge in front of a crowd, Matty!"  
  
Matt lets Foggy lead him off the bed to the dresser, to put on socks. "Sure, throw snowballs at the blind guy. That'll endear you to the public."  
  
"Buddy, the public loves me. I'm a media darling. I mean, I was for like the three seconds I was on TV that one time. Nothing could make them hate me."  
  
"PR genius you may be, but let's not try our luck, okay? It'd be a terrible shame if we had to kick you out of the firm for causing a scandal."  
  
Foggy makes sure to grab his scarf this time when they walk to the door, pulling it tight around his neck. Matt, unable to control himself, reaches up and adjusts it to his liking, before linking their arms. Outside the apartment, they stand against the wall for a minute, observing the snow cascading off an awning down onto unsuspecting pedestrians below.  
  
They walk at an easy pace, with Foggy purposely trying to step into untouched patches, leaving bootprints all over the snowbanks. Their tracks are erratic and ugly: Matt plows right through the dirtied mess already left behind by others, his cane leaving neat little circles whenever it lands in a clean spot, and Foggy kicks snowdrift into the street like a brat throwing a tantrum. When they reach the southern edge of Central Park, Foggy stops under a tree, opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out to catch the clumps of snow that fall when the wind rustles the needles. Matt takes great pleasure in striking the trunk with one hard hit, releasing a huge mass of fluffy powder right onto Foggy's face. Foggy coughs at the shock of cold hitting his throat, and scrubs his face clean with one hand, while blindly smacking Matt's shoulder with the other.  
  
Matt puts up with the assault for a few seconds while he laughs, clutching at the tree, but eventually he straightens up, and uses his gloved fingers to swipe away at the snowflakes on Foggy's forehead and eyelashes. They continue on, tromping through slush under the arches, and leaving handprints on the bridge railings. With a little effort, they scale the growing pile of snow at the edge of a walking path and slough through the lawn. Foggy stops to reach down and scoop out a perfect section of pristine snow, balling it up as best he can. It mostly crumbles away as snowdust, but he manages a small lump that he tosses at Matt without warning. Matt must decide there's no real risk of anyone spotting them, because he catches and returns it in one quick move, hitting Foggy in the chest.  
  
The blow is unexpected, and sends Foggy falling backward onto his behind. He releases a squawk as he goes down, and surrenders to gravity, lying down flat. He sinks in a little ways, his head pillowed by the snow solidifying under his weight, and the creeping chill starts to slip in immediately, followed by tiny pinpricks of dampness through the fabric of his pants.  
  
An alarmed noise escapes from Matt, and he trudges back to check on Foggy, who makes no effort to sit up.  
  
"You okay down there?" Matt asks, bending over to peer at him.  
  
"I'd be better if you joined me," Foggy replies. Somehow snow has found its way up his sleeve, his hair is falling into his eyes, and his pants will be soaked in a matter of minutes, but he certainly can't complain about the view. The sky is bright despite the overcast of clouds, and it lights the picturesque drape of endless snow falling around Matt, who smiles down at Foggy like he's impossibly charmed for some reason. Foggy knows that if he reaches up, Matt will take his hand, no matter whether Foggy wants to be helped up, or wants to pull him down into the snow.  
  
This absolute faith that Matt will always meet him halfway makes his breath catch in his throat like it used to during those first few months of law school. The way it used to before he learned his painful, secret feelings weren't so unrequited as he thought. That blood-rushing, dizzying sense of romantic fervor had slipped so easily into the way they already loved one another: comfortable and uncomplicated, seamless and intrinsic to the way they worked together, understood each other. Foggy has loved Matt for so long now that he can't remember how he'd ever felt before they met, can't remember how he lived before adjusting to Matt's rhythm and spaces, their shared language of touch and trust.  
  
Now that they've been together for long enough that he doesn't feel that swooping thrill of surprise when he wakes up to find Matt in his bed shirtless and drooling into the pillow, sometimes he forgets about the early days, when they would part after dinner with nothing more than a goodnight kiss. Their extremely belated courting period, marked by bouquets of crepe paper flowers and trying to tango to polka music and homemade dinners, this time by candlelight. Those misty waking dream seconds between the declaration of intent and the kiss, and how Matt would wrap his hand around Foggy's wrist to feel his pulse jump when their lips met.  
  
All of these things come so easy now, that every once in a while, in a moment like this, Foggy has to remind himself to thank the universe for doing him this one grand favor. Foggy doesn't mind working hard to get what he wants; he's got New York in him down to the marrow, and what is the city if not blood and grit, toil and common sense and a pinch of good luck from a wayward star? He knew how much work it would take to become a lawyer, and he knows how much work it'll take to save Hell's Kitchen. But Matt walking into their room that day all those years ago – that was something that no amount of effort could ever have induced on its own. That was a gift from fate. If there were ever one wish Foggy could be granted, it would be for fate, in every lifetime, every iteration of the universe, to deliver Matt safely to him. He knows it's a heavy demand, but it's the only thing he's too selfish to surrender.  
  
After throwing his cane to the ground much more cavalierly than he really should, Matt lowers himself into the snow so that he's snug against Foggy's side. He winces at the touch of snow against the back of his head, because he is silly and hatless, unlike Foggy, who knows better than to forgo proper winter headwear, even at the cost of hiding his silken golden locks. Foggy unties his scarf and folds it into a square, sliding it under Matt, who sighs in relief at the soft cushion of merino wool.  
  
They lie there in silence under the cutting January air, listening to the sounds of the city and letting winter nip away at their bones.  
  
"Hey," Foggy says as a flock of crows take to the air, charcoal dark against the heathered sky. He turns so he's facing Matt, who mirrors him when he hears what Foggy's doing.  
  
"Hey to you too," Matt says back, bumping their elbows together.  
  
"I still love you, even though you knocked me out," Foggy says nobly, petting Matt's cheek with his wet mitten. A motion of forgiveness.  
  
"And I still love you, even though you started the fight," Matt returns, biting at Foggy's hand while wearing the Devil's glass shard smirk. Foggy lets him get a hold of the wool, and he laughs when Matt recoils at the taste of damp fuzz. It triggers an old memory of a similar reaction to terrible cotton candy that he'd long forgotten about.  
  
"Do you remember that time when we ran out of toothpaste the night before the jurisprudence final?"  
  
Matt's eyebrows fly up when he recalls the incident. "You mean that time you made me go to the convenience store with you in the middle of a blizzard at three a.m. because, and I quote, 'I can't take an exam with  _plaque_ on my teeth, Matt, I'm not a  _troglodyte_ '?" Matt's fake-Foggy voice is way too high to be a good imitation.  
  
"It was a snow squall at most, and if you think I sound that squeaky, then I have some serious doubts about these 'special senses' of yours," Foggy says, making his air quotes very pronounced.  
  
Matt clears his throat, and the next sentence comes out in a gravelly bass instead. "Matt, why don't they sell bubblegum toothpaste? What do you mean I can't have a pizza lunchable for breakfast? Do you think Professor Thayer will notice if I copy and paste the Articles of Confederation into my essay? C'mon, Matty, eat the disgusting vacuum-sealed cotton candy with me. It'll be fun, I promise. No, it's not neon blue, I swear. Pleeeeease-"  
  
Foggy kisses him silent before the mockery can continue, even though Matt looks way too happy about it. He suspects Matt wins either way.  
  
"I can't believe you remember all the dumb stuff I babbled about while sleep-deprived one night a billion years ago."   
  
"How could I ever forget the most traumatizing experience of our entire 2L year? Cold, exhausted, the taste of mothballs permanently branded on my palate," Matt laments, sighing into Foggy's neck.  
  
This storm's nowhere near as bad as that one was, but Foggy feels equally frozen. He tries to wiggle his toes in his boots, but he's not sure if he's succeeding or not. It feels like someone's injected him with novocaine. "Are you cold now? 'Cause I gotta tell you, my legs are completely numb. I can't feel my butt anymore."  
  
"Don't worry, I can feel it for you anytime you'd like." This is the worst kind of time for Matt's poker face to be so composed.  
  
"It is axiomatically impossible for you to have gotten so many girlfriends with moves like that. I refuse to accept it."  
  
"You've never complained before," Matt says, doing something unspeakable with his eyebrows, and Foggy has no choice but to smother him with snow as punishment for his crimes upon humanity.  
  
\--  
  
They wander only as far as the carousel in their soggy pants before they decide to give up. Daylight is beginning to fade, and they'll catch hypothermia if they stay out any longer, which Claire will not be happy to hear about. When they've hit the borders of Hell's Kitchen and they stop for a traffic light, Foggy examines the state of the streets. The plows have already come through once, but another layer has since built up. The buildings and fire escapes are all covered, and he's sure the alleys will be in no better shape.  
  
While they wait for the walk signal, he leans in to whisper to Matt. "You have to be careful tonight. I know you can't wear boots, but there's always a chance of this all freezing over. I don't want you breaking your neck out here."  
  
Matt looks slightly taken aback by this, but he nods. "I'll keep that in mind. But I'm staying in tonight. I need you to keep me warm after we get frostbite."  
  
Foggy doesn't bother to hide his relief. "I can do that."  
  
However, at the street where they'd normally turn to reach Matt's apartment, Matt draws them to a stop, changing their direction abruptly. Foggy goes along with it, humoring Matt's whims even though he's probably developed gangrene on his left foot. He doesn't anticipate their destination, even after he recognizes the route.  
  
Matt unhooks their arms and starts toward the entrance of their office, only stopping to touch the sign.  
  
"Did we come here just so you could caress our sign again?" Foggy asks. "I swear you love that thing more than you love me."  
  
"I could never love anything more than I love you," Matt says automatically, and Foggy is hopelessly touched by how straightforward Matt makes it sound. "I just needed to pick up something I forgot earlier. I'll be back out in a jiffy." And in he goes.  
  
"A jiffy, he says," Foggy mutters, and he hops in place outside, trying to bring circulation back to his numb feet. When Matt doesn't zoom back out after fifteen seconds, Foggy goes to examine their sign the way Matt does. He likes the smooth texture of the letters, and the sturdy feel they have. A very nice sign for a very nice law firm.  
  
He spins at the sound of Matt exiting the building, about to regale him with his sudden swell of pride at how pretty okay they've done for themselves for the last couple of years, but the nervous look on Matt's face stops the words before they come out. Matt's hands are clasped behind his back, cane folded back up and tucked away out of sight. It's all very suspicious.  
  
"What's up with you, dude? Couldn't find your thing? What was it, anyway? Paperwork?" Foggy prods, moving toward Matt, who shuffles away.  
  
"No, I found it fine. Um." Matt stops walking backward, and instead paces sideways, toward the sign. "This is a nice spot, isn't it? Our law office. That we started together."  
  
Foggy would comment on how weird Matt's being, but he'd literally just been thinking the same thing. "Yeah, I was actually just thinking about that. You and me, we made it. Sure, we might be ranked behind a thousand other lawyers in the phonebook, but we _are_ in there. Real, official, case-winning attorneys at law. We're fucking awesome. Not that that's up for debate." He grasps Matt's shoulder, nodding sagely.  
  
"Maybe things have changed since I've last looked at one, but I think the phonebook is listed alphabetically, Foggy," Matt says, purposely missing the point, but he looks less squirrelly than before. "So we're in agreement that we like our office."  
  
"Yes, the court recognizes that we like our office, Matt." Foggy says indulgently, shaking Matt a little bit to carry his point.  
  
"And we like each other." Matt's expression is dead serious.  
  
Foggy wants to throw his hands up in the air, but he channels that energy into gripping Matt's shoulder even harder. "The fact that you're making me corroborate these statements makes me want to pelt you with more snowballs, but I'll do this, for you. Yes, Matt. We do like each other. A lot."  
  
"Good, good." Matt looks vaguely dazed as he finally unclasps his hands, using one to remove Foggy's from his shoulder. "Then let's hope I don't utterly screw this up."  
  
And he gets down on one knee.  
  
Foggy stares at Matt blankly, unable to register anything besides the fact that Matt's kneeling in a puddle and at some point he must have removed his gloves, because the hands holding open the ring box are bare.  
  
"What?" Foggy asks, because his entire vocabulary has suddenly fled to Canada.  
  
"Well," Matt begins, voice more dry than nervous at this point. "Unless my body has somehow ceased to function how I expect it to, you should see me genuflecting before you in a pile of slush, holding a box. I was told – and I confirmed, to the best of my ability – that there should be a gold ring in there, and yes, it should be your size. I know you've watched enough romantic comedies to understand what this signifies, but just in case you've somehow forgotten, I'd like to verbally confirm for the jury that I am indeed proposing to you."  
  
"Huh," Foggy says, looking down at the ring, and then back at Matt's face. He's still somewhat disoriented, but there's only one possible answer. "Yes, of course I accept." He makes to take the ring, but Matt bats his hand away.  
  
"Wait, I didn't even get to do the actual proposal!" he says, pulling the box back.  
  
Foggy grins, trying again to snap the box out of Matt's hand. "That wasn't it? It was pretty good. I accept regardless, so lemme have the ring."  
  
Matt dodges expertly, deflecting Foggy's hand away. "Dammit, Foggy, this is about the tenth time I've attempted this, so let me do it properly! I will literally kneel here until sunrise if I have to, so just cooperate and save us both the trouble."  
  
"Ten times? Really?" Foggy can't remember any recent behavior that might constitute a proposal. "And what happens at sunrise? If I make you wait that long are you just gonna give up?"  
  
"Okay, so I've thought about it at least ten times, but I never actually acted on those urges until just now. And if you make me wait until sunrise I'm just going to quit and move to Idaho to become a hermit," Matt barks. The fabric at his knee is completely soaked, so Foggy decides to stop haranguing him and allow himself to be wooed.  
  
"Aw, not Idaho. Alright, let's hear what you've got, Murdock. Make it good, or I'll- well, I'll say yes no matter what, but we won't have a good proposal story to tell people. So do your best."  
  
"Thank you, I will." Matt inhales sharply, and exhales just as hard before he starts speaking again. "Franklin Nelson-"  
  
" _No_ , absolutely not," Foggy breaks in.  
  
"Yeah, sorry, I thought it would add some formality to the situation, but it really is kind of awkward, isn't it?"  
  
"You don't have to tell me twice. Growing up with that was more punishment than I deserve."  
  
"Okay. Foggy. You are, without a doubt, the greatest thing that's ever- no, let me start again. From the moment I met you, wait, shit, I decided to scrap that. Fuck, I forgot which part of the speech comes first." Matt groans, and Foggy can't stand to watch him suffer anymore. He leans forward, taking Matt's hands in his, and kisses him, even though it almost tips Matt over into the snow.  
  
When they separate, Foggy pulls Matt back up to his feet. "Matty, let's go home. You can give me your delightful proposal speech while we're sitting on your cozy couch not freezing half to death. I'll still accept, I promise, and I'll even wait until you're done singing my praises."  
  
Matt sighs, burying his face against Foggy's shoulder. "There was this whole bit about avocados and justice, and I wanted to finally _tell_ you- about sunshine and orange blossoms and vanilla sugar. And the staccato of your heart, and the way you sing when no one's looking, and  _seashells_ , but I wasn't sufficiently prepared," he mopes, and Foggy hasn't any idea what any of those phrases mean, but there'll be time to find out later.  
  
"It's okay, it was beautiful anyway." Foggy says soothingly, rubbing circles on Matt's back.   
  
"At least let me do this," Matt says, muffled, waving the ring box.  
  
"Sure thing, buddy."  
  
Matt lifts his head, and takes a step back. He holds Foggy's left hand and slips the ring onto his fourth finger, gently, almost reverently. Foggy savors the new weight of the ring, and wiggles his fingers to appreciate the way the light catches on the surface. By now, the shock has faded, replaced by a slowly expanding euphoria. A proposal. That means a wedding, which means marriage. After all this time, they've finally arrived where they were always meant to be.  
  
Matt takes his hand so that he can feel the ring while they walk, his thumb stroking against Foggy's skin nonstop. During their trip home, Foggy can't stop smiling, so much so that it's starting to affect Matt's ability to mope, especially when Foggy leans in against him, swinging their arms back and forth like they're young lovers at the beach.  
  
"C'mon, Matty, don't be so gloomy. I'm sure you'll do a great job when you rework it for our wedding vows."  
  
"But it was supposed to be perfect for you the first time," Matt says, still slightly dejected. "I probably should have waited for better weather, and I should've rehearsed more, but today I just kept getting distracted by you and your whipped cream and scarf, and all the snow, and I couldn't handle the thought of going through another year just being your partner when I could be your  _husband_ instead."  
  
Foggy raises their hands so he can see the ring again, and he shakes his head so that Matt can feel it on his shoulder. "Matt, this _is_ perfect. That you love me enough to propose – that's the only thing I ever wanted to hear."  
  
Matt's smile, shy and secret, is the brightest point in the entire city. "Always were a little bit married. We're just making it official now."  
  
"To have and to hold, right?" Foggy laces his fingers with Matt's in illustration.  
  
"From this day forward," Matt agrees, and as he meets Foggy for a kiss, Foggy knows his heartbeat will speak loud enough for him.  
  
_Always and forever_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things Matt was rambling about in his (slightly) botched proposal will probably be explained in the companion piece to this story, which I'll get to work on soon. Hope to see you there!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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